


this mess is yours, this mess is mine

by jenga



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drug-Induced Sex, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenga/pseuds/jenga
Summary: After breakfast, Lovett gives Jon two more pills, feeling distinctly creepy as he does so.  It’s not like he’s roofying him, he insists to himself as he plops down onto the far end of the couch.  It’s not Lovett’s fault Jon’s physician-prescribed medication turns him into an aggressively tactile octopus.





	this mess is yours, this mess is mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longnationalnightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/longnationalnightmare/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday gift for longnationalnightmare, because she is a delight unto us all, and because I've never met a deadline I didn't blow right past. Allie, I hope you and your id enjoy this gift!
> 
> Everything good about this fic is due to drunktuesdays, my beta/drill sergeant, who lovingly shouted encouragement and threats in equal measure. Giant thanks also to kalpurna, my Allie-whisperer, who followed me around with a bell like the septa from Game of Thrones, shouting "Wallow! Wallow! Wallow!"

“I’m running into Starbucks, you want anything?”

“Oh!” Jon says, sounding surprised by the question. “Um, let me think—"

“Think fast,” Lovett says. “I’m walking in now and if you haven’t picked by the time I get to the front of the line you’re getting black coffee. _Strong_ black coffee.”

“A caramel frappuccino,” Jon says.  “Venti.”

“That’s disgusting, you’re disgusting,” Lovett says, making a face.  “The calories alone—"

“Get one for yourself and then come to Barry’s with me and Tommy tomorrow,” Jon interrupts.  Lovett can _hear_ the pointed eyebrow over the phone.  “You can have it all, you know.”

“I already do have it all, and ‘all’ does not include six pumps of caramel flavor in perfectly good coffee,” Lovett retorts, smiling when he hears Jon laugh.

“Suit yourself,” Jon says easily.  “Coming to mine after?  Want me to run out and get bagels?”

“One strawberry and one asiago,” Lovett says immediately.  Jon hums thoughtfully.  “What?”

“Nothing, just admiring how fragile your glass house is.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lovett says, hanging up with a grin.

Lovett’s still in line when he sees the AP update about Marco Rubio’s latest public statement.  It is, predictably, absolutely lacking in substance, morals, or active verbs.

 _He’s not even trying to sound like he has a backbone anymore,_ Lovett texts Jon, including a link to Rubio’s statement.  Well, “statement.”  Pathetic little whimper into a paper bag, more like.  He snorts to himself and sends that as well.  Jon should be allowed to appreciate all his humorous gems.

 _Jon Favreau is typing…_ immediately appears at the top of their WhatsApp thread.  Satisfied, Lovett turns his focus to ordering his grande iced coffee and low-calorie cookie, as well as the abomination Jon requested.  By the time he steps out of line the WhatsApp notification has disappeared, and Jon still hasn’t responded.  Lovett tries not to feel disgruntled about it as he picks up his order and walks out to his car.  After all, just because Jon typically responds to Lovett’s jokes with a laughing emoji or a _haha, yeah_ , it doesn’t mean he always has to.

He calls Jon back as he’s pulling out of the parking spot, to let him know he’s on his way.  No response.  A vaguely unsettled feeling follows Lovett all the way back to their street.  Pulling into his driveway, he checks his notifications.  Nothing from Jon.  On a hunch, Lovett pulls up his Twitter app.  Something like dread fills his stomach when he sees that Jon hasn’t tweeted in over an hour.

When he gets the call from Cedars-Sinai, he almost feels like he’s been expecting it.

 

 

 

Tommy and Hanna show up twenty minutes after Lovett calls, a flat-out miracle in Los Angeles traffic.  “Lovett!” Tommy calls, breaking into a half-jog down the hospital corridor.  Lovett stands, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and trying to remember how to smile like a normal person.  Tommy reaches him and grabs him up into a hug, an unthinking, automatic gesture.  Affection comes easily to Tommy, which Lovett normally finds bemusing but today is grateful for.

“Is he okay?  Where is he?” Tommy asks, pulling back.  Lovett scrubs a hand over his face.  He hasn’t been crying—he _hasn’t—_ but he feels the need to compose himself before he talks, lest his lip tremble or something equally horrifying.

“I haven’t seen him yet,” Lovett says, eyes fixed on a splotchy mark on the wall.  It looks vaguely like the Camel logo.  “They said he got hit by a car while crossing the street.”

“Is he awake?” Hanna asks, her grip white-knuckled on her bag strap.

Lovett shrugs, a jerky, self-conscious motion.  “I don’t know, they haven’t said.”

“What did they say when—"

“I don’t _know_ , Tommy,” Lovett snaps.  He pulls back until Tommy’s hands fall off his shoulders, trying to avoid looking at their inquisitive faces, asking questions he can’t answer.  _Is he awake?  Is he okay?  Will he recover?  What was he doing when he was crossing the street?_  He takes a breath, rolling his eyes slightly at his own dramatics.  “Sorry.  I’m stressed.”

Tommy nods, and they all sit down to wait.

It’s less than an hour before a nurse comes to find them, although it feels like several.  “He’s awake,” she says, ushering them through the swinging double doors at a rapid clip.  Lovett’s heart jumps into his throat, and Tommy lets out a quick, shaky breath.  “He’s pretty banged up, just a warning, but there shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

Lovett follows, nearly jogging to keep up with Tommy’s long stride.  He’s shaky with relief.  _Jon’s okay.  Jon’s okay,_ he says to himself over and over, a mantra.   _He’s okay, he’s going to be okay.  He’s not hurt._

Except he is, of course.  Lovett freezes in the doorway even as Tommy and Hanna rush over to his bed.  His left arm is in a cast up to the elbow, and one entire side of his torso is scraped to hell.  His nose looks broken, with ugly purple bruises spreading out from the center of his face.  His legs are covered, and Lovett worries what additional damage might be hiding under the thin blanket.

“You look like shit,” he says loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.  Make it a joke.  Make it funny, and it won’t be terrifying.  “What the hell, you’re the face of this company, we can’t have you looking like this!”

Jon’s expression had been difficult to make out behind the bandages and bruises, but when Lovett speaks a grin cracks over his face and he lets out two harsh-sounding chuckles.  “Jesus, Lovett, don’t make me laugh,” he says, grimacing.  Tommy hides his laugh behind his hand, and Hanna smiles to herself, but Lovett keeps his eyes on the only audience he cares about in this moment.  _There he is,_ Lovett thinks.  Jon is battered and bruised, but his laugh is still there, and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.  Some of the tension blocking up his chest breaks off, like a piece of an iceberg falling into the ocean.

Lovett walks into the room but doesn’t approach the bed, instead sitting down on the wall opposite from Jon.  “So, how bad is it?” Hanna asks, looking from the nurse to Jon.

“A few cracked ribs, broken arm, broken nose, and a fuck-ton of road rash,” Jon says, wincing again as he tries to sit up.  “Did I get it all?”

“Yep,” the nurse says, scanning Jon’s chart.  “He’s all plastered up, and we can discharge him today.  You’ll just want to be back in a couple weeks so we can check your progress, and then we’ll take that cast off in six weeks.”  She looks up and scans the room.  “Who’s going home with him?”

“Oh, they don’t need to—" Jon starts to say, but she shakes her head firmly.

“You’ll be on pain meds for at least a week, and you’re gonna have a hell of a time moving from room to room with those ribs,” she says.  “The doctor really recommends you not be alone right now.”

Lovett sees Tommy and Hanna glance at each other.  Two sets of hands are better than one, Lovett reasons.  They could take turns missing work, and if anything happened one person could stay with Jon while the other went to get help.  Makes perfect sense for Jon to go back to Tommy and Hanna’s and stay in their comfortable guest room until he’s back on his feet.

So Lovett will never be able to explain why he did it.  “I can stay with him,” he says, standing up quickly.  “He’s got a better cable package, anyways.”

“It’s mostly sports channels,” Jon says, but he’s smiling at Lovett.

 

 

 

Lovett leaves Tommy and Hanna at Jon’s place and runs across the street to his own to pack a bag.  By the time he comes back with Pundit, they’ve gotten him settled on the couch and are in the midst of preparing dinner.

“Did you leave anything back at your place?” Hanna asks when Lovett comes in loaded down with two duffel bags stuffed full of clothes, Pundit’s things, and half his refrigerator’s contents.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Lovett protests, dropping the bags where he stands.  “I need to be fed and entertained while I’m being an amazing, sainted friend.”

“You do know you live across the street, right?” Tommy points out, flipping the hamburgers on Jon’s griddle.  Lovett makes a face at his back and drags an armful of bags into Jon’s guest room.  He leaves them, figuring he can unpack later, and goes into the living room.

Jon is watching the television quietly, the clearest sign yet that he’s in pain.  Normally he’s animated while watching the news, commenting on whatever bullshit the Trump pundits are spinning, hands waving in the air and face twisted in irritation.  It’s odd to see him lying on the couch, watching the screen with a calm, placid expression on his face.  The guilt flares up again, sharp and pointed.

“Hey,” Jon says, catching sight of him in the doorway.  “You wouldn’t believe what Jeffrey Lord just said, want me to rewind it?”

“Nah,” Lovett shakes his head, coming into the living room to sit on the end of the couch.  “I’m sure I’ll see it on twitter in five minutes.”

They sit in silence.  Every time Lovett gets the urge to react or make some joke, he glances over and catches sight of Jon’s still, quiet frame, and the urge to speak dies in his chest.  It feels manifestly unfair.  Why should he get to shout and gesticulate and bounce back on his heels if Jon can’t?

“Okay, you’re creeping me out,” Jon says after several long minutes.  “I don’t think I’ve seen you go this long without talking in my entire life.”

Lovett doesn’t make eye contact.  “I’m just watching the news,” he says, pointing at the television.  “Very important things are being discussed.”

Jon glances at the screen.  The banner reads “TRUMP PREPARES FOR STATE OF THE UNION: WILL HE BE PRESIDENTIAL ENOUGH FOR MIDDLE AMERICA?”  Jon shoots an eloquent look back at Lovett, who flushes and stares straight ahead.

“You know, when I first woke up in the hospital I had half a moment where I thought I had dreamed it all,” Jon says.  “Like a whole Wizard of Oz thing.  Maybe I got hit by a car in January 2016 and woke up in time to stop it from happening.”

“That didn’t happen in Wizard of Oz,” Lovett says.

“The waking up part did, at least,” Jon says easily.

Lovett knows he should say something, or at least laugh, but all he can think about Jon waking up in the emergency room, alone and terrified and in pain.  It’s the least funny thing he can imagine.

Jon manages to eat half a hamburger and three bites of salad before he starts nodding off.  “It’s been a long day,” he says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back against the couch cushions.

“You fall asleep at 8:30 most nights,” Tommy points out.  Jon flips him off before letting his hand fall, heavy, back into his lap.

Tommy and Lovett help Jon to bed while Hanna cleans up.  “I can walk by myself,” Jon says, but he wraps an arm around each of them and lets them shuffle him awkwardly down the hall.  By the time they reach his bed, he’s sweating and pale.

Tommy helps him out of his clothes.  Lovett looks away, nauseous and hating himself for it, when he catches sight of Jon’s scraped-up torso; the rash spreading from hip to armpit.  He’s going to need to get over this quickly if he’s going to be any use to Jon.

“Lovett, can you grab some clothes for him?” Tommy asks, bending down to unlace Jon’s shoes.  Lovett opens a few drawers until he finds a pair of sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, chucking them onto the bed.  Tommy helps Jon into the pants first, then gingerly helps him put on the t-shirt, wincing in sympathy every time Jon hisses.  Lovett stands by the dresser, watching, feeling absolutely useless.

“Okay,” Tommy says finally, standing up.  “Do you need anything else before we go?”  He directs this question at Jon, but glances over at Lovett.  Lovett rubs his toes against the carpet, embarrassed by how incompetent he’s proven himself to be so far.  No wonder Tommy has no faith that Lovett can take care of Jon – he can see it in Tommy’s eyes, the doubt and skepticism and worry.   _He’s probably right_ , Lovett realizes.   _I’m going to kill Jon within two days._

“Nah, we’re good,” Jon says, smiling at Tommy and then Lovett.  He’s recovered most of his color, even though his forehead is still beaded with sweat.  “Lovett’s gonna be a great nurse.”

Lovett is often amazed by Jon’s easy trust, the bottomless faith he seems to have in people.  He’s not dumb, or naïve, but his confidence in himself and those around him is unbounded.  And even knowing how baseless this trust is, Lovett still finds himself bolstered by it.  “Yeah,” he says, smiling at Jon.  “Finally, I’ll get to act out my sponge bath fantasy.”

Jon laughs, short and small to avoid hurting his ribs, and Tommy snorts into his fist.  “Alright, that’s my cue to leave,” he says, patting Jon’s shoulder gently and waving at Lovett.  “Call if you need anything, both of you.”

Tommy leaves, and Lovett is left alone with Jon in a quiet house.

“I don’t need you to give me a bath tonight,” Jon says.

“That’s good,” Lovett responds after a long moment when he has no idea what to say.  “Uh, great.  No sponge baths for you, the fantasy can wait for another day.”

“Well, let’s see what tomorrow brings,” Jon says wryly, lifting his feet up with great care onto the bed.  “Could you—uh, could you help me?”

Lovett pushes off the dresser, eager to prove his ability as a caretaker.  He carefully draws back the covers and helps Jon slide underneath them, then drapes them back over his lap.  He hovers, bent slightly over the bed, uncertain if there’s more he should do.  Fluff his pillow?  Is that even a thing?  Make sure he’s sleeping on his side?  No, idiot, Jon isn’t _drunk_.

“Lovett?” Jon asks, peering up at him.  “I think I’m set.”

“Right,” Lovett says quickly, straightening up and taking several long strides back.  “So, do you need—I mean, is there anything else—"

“I’m good.”

“Painkillers on the nightstand, if you need—"

“Thanks,” Jon cuts him off, reclining with a sigh.  “I’m just gonna fall asleep.  Could you hit the light on your way out?”

Lovett nods quickly, turning off the lights and making a quick retreat.

 

 

 

Lovett is not a morning person.  Given his way, he’d sleep until eleven every morning, and stay in bed for hours after.  This has worked out great for him the past several years, working in Hollywood, living alone, and now being his own boss.  Even at the White House he was able to stroll in late in the morning as long as he stayed late to get his work done.  Suffice it to say, he’s had very few reasons in the past several years to get up early than eight am.

At 6:34 am, Lovett is woken up by his phone buzzing.  It’s Jon, he realizes blearily, blinking at the caller ID.  “Hello?” he asks hoarsely, answering.

“Hey, um,” Jon says, sounding embarrassed.  “I need help?”

Lovett blinks, confused, and then bolts upright.  He drops the phone on the bed and races down the hall to Jon’s room.  “Are you hurt?” he asks breathlessly, bursting in without knocking.

Jon is sitting up in bed, his feet dangling off the edge.  “No, no I’m fine,” he says.  “I just need to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh,” Lovett says, leaning against the doorjamb and exhaling, relieved.  Then, “ _oh_.  Like, you need—"

“Yeah,” Jon shrugs, red-faced.  “I’m having trouble standing.”

“Right,” Lovett says.

The morning routine is as bad as Lovett feared.  He helps Jon shuffle to the bathroom, facing the wall as he pees.  They experiment with Jon supporting himself on the counter while brushing his teeth, but his knees start wobbling after a few seconds.  Lovett ends up shoving a shoulder under Jon’s wounded arm while Jon brushes his teeth and attempts to shave with his non-dominant hand.

“I can grow a beard for a week,” Jon decides after trying to hold the razor shakily in his right hand.  Lovett exhales, relieved that he won’t be called upon for shaving duty.  He’s honestly not sure he’d survive that.

Then there’s the shower.

“We could put a stool in there,” Lovett says, eyeing the shower skeptically.

“You’d still have to help me in and out,” Jon points out.  “There aren’t any of those bars.”

Lovett swallows.  “Does your guest bathroom have a bathtub?”

It does, thank fucking god.  Lovett fills the tub, throwing in bubble bath from the cabinet on a whim.  Jon, observing Lovett’s activities from his seat on the toilet, laughs.  “Trying to spoil me?” he asks Lovett.  Every time he smiles, Lovett finds himself noticing the bruises less and less.

Lovett helps him out of his shirt and sweatpants, and then lets Jon support himself on his shoulder as he sheds his boxers and steps into the tub.  He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall until he hears Jon settle under the bubbles, his cast resting on the ledge out of the water.

“Fuck, this feels good,” he groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.  Lovett watches him sink lower into the tub, carefully keeping his arm out of the water.  “Why don’t we take baths every day?”

“We?” Lovett asks, as if it’s an important distinction.

“Everyone,” Jon clarifies, his eyes still closed.  Lovett stares at him.  “I think women are onto something with this bubble bath thing.”

“You have bubble bath,” Lovett points out, his throat dry.  “I didn’t magically make that appear.”

“It was a gift from my mom, I’ve never used it.”  Jon opens his eyes, peering up at Lovett.  “Feel free to take a bath after me, you’ve earned it.”

Lovett has tucked Jon into bed and served as a balancing beam so he could pee.  Lovett has earned exactly nothing.

“Need me to wash your hair?” he asks, giving Jon his best leer.  “I did promise you a sponge bath.”

“Nah,” Jon laughs, splashing a little water Lovett’s way.  “You’re released.  Come back in ten minutes and help me out of the tub?”

Ten minutes, it turns out, is just long enough to quickly jack off in Jon’s master bathroom, hand gripping the edge of the counter as he tries to think about his favorite porn, his typical fantasies.  But instead he keeps flashing on the feeling of Jon’s hand on his shoulder, one finger dipping into the back of his t-shirt; the sound of Jon’s pleasure-drunk groan as he slid into the hot water; the glimpse of a pale, curving ass that Lovett caught in the mirror before he could cut his eyes away.

 _Baby, I need help with this,_ Jon says to him, guiding his hand under the soapy water to wrap around his dick.  Lovett comes, just managing to muffle a loud moan with a hand towel.  

 

 

 

Despite sharing an enclosed space and theoretically serving as caretaker, Lovett gamely tries to avoid Jon for most of the morning.  They both have plenty of work to do, and Lovett keeps finding other tasks to busy himself with whenever it seems like Jon’s approaching a chatty mood.  It’s remarkably difficult, it turns out, to have a conversation with your best friend hours after you came thinking about your hand on his cock.

“I’m gonna go record ads with Tommy,” he says after he brings Jon his lunch, scanning the room for his favorite hat.  “I’ll be back in an hour or so, text if you need anything.”

“I thought he said he’d handle it himself?” Jon asks, snatching Lovett’s cap from between the couch cushions and tossing it to him.

“Our listeners deserve better than Tommy reading straight ad copy and occasionally trying to be funny,” Lovett says, cramming the hat on his head and scooping up Pundit’s leash.  “Want me to take Leo in?”

“Oh,” Jon says, tipping his head back on the couch to see Leo standing eagerly by the door.  “Uh, yeah, sure.  He should get out a little today.”

Lovett hesitates.  Jon is fiddling with his phone, a small, sad expression on his face, and Lovett feels his chest compress.  For all that Lovett is the loud, gregarious one, he also wears his unhappiness like an armor.  _Look at it_ , he demands of the world.   _See my discontent and deal with it._  But Jon, Jon goes through life smiling, always just one bad joke away from throwing his head back in laughter.  This is unbearable.  Lovett wonders what damages they can demand from the driver of the car—broken ribs, ripped up skin, two days where Jon Favreau didn’t laugh?

“One hour, tops,” Lovett says.  He’s never kept a deadline in his life, but he’ll keep this one.  “And I’ll bring you Dunkins when I come back.”

The bright smile that spreads across Jon’s face follows Lovett all the way to the office.  Lovett thinks about it as he adds color commentary to Tommy’s ad read, making up increasingly outlandish stories about Jon’s injuries in each ad.  Jon will listen later when Tommy’s pod drops.  Lovett imagines him laughing on his couch, shooting Lovett shy, private smiles each time his name is mentioned.

“Their economic classes are _perfect_ for your coworker who just woke up from a coma as an avowed trickle-down economist,” Lovett wraps up their Great Courses ad.

“Yep,” Tommy laughs.  “That one was a shock to all of us.  But we still love you, Jon.  Get better soon!”

“Love you, buddy,” Lovett mumbles, a smile twisting at his mouth.  “End of ad.”

Tommy slips the headphones off, still giggling.  “Is he doing okay?”

“I saw him naked this morning, he’s doing _fine_ ,” Lovett says, thumbing through twitter.

“Sure, those are related,” Tommy rolls his eyes.  “Hanna and I can stop by again tonight for dinner.”

Heading home, Lovett drives three miles out of his way to the nearest Dunkin, and manages to make it back to Jon’s house a spare three minutes after his promised hour has expired.  “Honey, I’m home!” he calls, dropping the box on the counter and unclipping the dogs’ leashes.  “Jon?”

Lovett follows the sound of the television back to the living room to find Jon in the same spot he’d been in when he’d left.  At first Lovett thinks he’s asleep, hunched on his side with his good hand stuffed under his pillow.  But when he comes around to check, he sees Jon’s eyes are open and fixed on a spot on the wall, and his face—his face is pale, beaded with sweat, and twisted in pain.

“Jon,” Lovett says, his voice high and sharp with panic, dropping to his knees.  “Jon?  What’s wrong?  Shit, what is it?”  His mind spins through the various things that could be wrong—internal bleeding, a punctured lung?  

“I’m—" Jon manages, closing his eyes from the effort.  “It hurts.”

“Fuck,” Lovett mutters, kneeing closer.  He wraps a tentative hand around Jon’s neck, his fear spiking when he feels Jon’s fevered skin.  “Are the pills not working?”

“I didn’t take them,” Jon shakes his head.

Lovett freezes, his hand still on Jon’s neck.  “What?”

Jon swallows, blinking up at Lovett.  “All those stories—opioid addiction,” he says, his good hand coming up to clench around Lovett’s wrist.

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Lovett breathes, wanting to tighten his fingers and strangle Jon here and now.  “Are you fucking—you’re not going to get fucking addicted from _one week_ of Vicodin, and you’re not going to heal without them.”

“But—"

“ _I’ll_ hold onto the pills, alright?” Lovett cuts him off, managing by sheer force to not raise his voice.  “Two pills at a time, like right now.”  He grabs the bottle from the side table and shakes two small white pills into his palm, holding them out for Jon to take.  “If you don’t take these I’m going to call Tommy, and then I’m going to murder you.”

“Fine,” Jon says, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.  He dry-swallows both, which Lovett’s fucked up psyche manage to find hot hot despite how unsexy this whole situation is.  “You’re mean, you know.”  He closes his eyes and exhales.  Lovett knows the pills will take a few minutes to work, but he already imagines he can see color starting to bleed back into Jon’s lips and cheeks, the tension leaching out of his expression.

“I can’t believe you were just sitting here all morning, miserable with pain,” Lovett says, crossing his legs under him and sitting on the carpet.  Jon is still holding onto his wrist, his thumb tracing lines on his palm.  “Don’t do that, don’t make this worse.”

“Sorry,” Jon says, squeezing Lovett’s hand.

“Don’t apologize, either,” Lovett protests.  “You know I’m the reason you’re in this situation in the first place.”  He doesn’t mean to say it—he’d barely been letting himself think it, because every time he did the guilt would flare up as a consuming, dark thing in his chest.

Jon is staring at him.  “What?  How are you responsible?”

“I was—" Lovett waves his free hand, wishing Jon weren’t holding onto him, wishing he were several feet away, wishing he were in an entirely different room.  “You were responding to my text.”

“Well, now who’s the idiot?” Jon mumbles, sliding his hand up to tangle with Lovett’s fingers.  “If I hadn’t been texting you, I’d have been on twitter or Instagram or reading the news, and you know it.”

“Yeah, but—"

“Lovett, I’m happy to blame you for all the dumb shit you do that makes my life more complicated, but this isn’t one of them.” Jon’s eyes are drifting closed.  He tugs their linked hands up, settling them back under his face as a makeshift pillow.  His cheek is pressed into Lovett’s knuckles.  He’s stubbly and sweaty and Lovett can’t think of a single reason to move his hand in this moment.

 

 

 

Jon sleeps through most of the afternoon, waking groggily when Tommy and Hanna arrive with pizza.  “Here,” Lovett says, helping him upright and dropping a plate with two slices on his lap.  “Eat this, and then you get two more pills.”

“Thanks,” Jon mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  Lovett sits next to him on the couch, Tommy and Hanna sitting on the carpet next to the coffee table.  Tommy fills most of the silence, discussing his guest that morning and their developing plans for the next tour.  Lovett tries to follow but finds himself distracted by Jon’s heavy weight as he leans into his side.  His injured arm settles on Lovett’s thigh.  Jon eats with his good hand, seemingly not aware that his fingers are playing with the hem of Lovett’s shorts, but Lovett definitely notices.  His entire focus is pulled to the light scratch of Jon’s nails above his knee, dipping under his shorts and tracing their way up a bit.

Tommy’s voice trails off, and Lovett looks up to see him raising his eyebrows at him.   _It’s not my fault_ , Lovett wants to insist. _Apparently Jon gets handsy on Vicodin, who knew?_  He puts his hand over Jon’s and tries to move it away, but Jon flips his hand under Lovett’s and twines their fingers together, a lightning-fast move for someone so sluggish.  Lovett shoots a helpless look at Tommy, who seems to be hiding a laugh.

“Well, I think we should call it a night,” Tommy says to Hanna, his mouth twitching.  Lovett wants to scream from the injustice of it all—being mocked for doing _nothing wrong whatsoever_ , just being a _good friend_ who—who takes care of people and lets them cuddle him like Jon is doing right now, his good hand now wrapping around Lovett’s bicep, fingers long enough to almost close around his arm.  “Do you need help getting him to bed?  Or can you handle that yourself?” Tommy asks, his question one giant innuendo.  

“I hate you,” Lovett tells him feverishly.  Jon is nuzzling his face into Lovett’s shoulder.

“Night, buddy,” Tommy grins.  Lovett can hear their laughter as they let themselves out.

Lovett peels away from Jon’s wandering hands and cleans up the remnants of the pizza, taking far longer than he needs to in order to regain some semblance of composure.  When he comes back in, Jon is sitting placidly in the same spot, watching him.  Waiting.  

“You’re taking such good care of me,” he says, tilting his head back against the couch and smiling sweetly at Lovett.  “I don’t deserve someone like you.”

Lovett has no idea what to say to that.  He’s used to attention, even open affection, from Jon, but he had no idea there was this other layer on top of that—unbridled and completely lacking in guile, pointing right at him.  “Take your pills,” Lovett says, uncapping the bottle and shaking out two more.  He holds them out to Jon, expecting him to take the pills like last time.

Instead, Jon takes Lovett’s hand in his good one, leans over and _licks the pills out of his hand,_ sending Lovett’s entire body into a state of liquid heat.

Lovett swallows.  “Are you a dog?” he asks, his breath coming fast.

“Why, is that something you’re into?” Jon asks, rubbing his face into Lovett’s palm.

This is his karmic punishment, Lovett thinks wildly as Jon continues to nuzzle his hand.  He got Jon injured because of a dumb Marco Rubio joke, and now he’s being tormented.  Maybe this is his punishment for _all_ Marco Rubio jokes, for every mean thing he’s ever said.  No single one of his crimes seems big enough for the injustice of being presented with this—this unguarded potential, this false option.

Lovett closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  “Come on, time for bed.”  

“Okay,” Jon says agreeably, standing carefully when Lovett pulls him to his feet.  “Let’s go.”

Lovett skips the bathroom in favor of getting Jon right to his bed, the quicker to get his hands off him.  The thought of helping him undress makes his entire brain screech to a halt, so he figures Jon can sleep in the same sweats he’s been wearing all day.  “Here we go,” he says, helping him swing his legs onto the bed and dragging the blankets up.

Lovett stands to leave.  “Oh—" Jon says, sounding bereft, grabbing his wrist as he takes a step back.  “Aren’t you going to stay?”

“Stay?” Lovett asks blankly.

“Yeah.” Jon tugs Lovett down onto the other side of the bed, surprisingly strong for someone who was run over by a car a day and a half earlier.  “Plenty of room,” he says with a yawn.  Lovett follows the pull, stretching out on Jon’s right. _Did you resist?_ some future panel of judgement asks in his imagination.  _I just lay down for a moment_ , he tells them, defensive.  _Just until he fell asleep._

Jon does fall asleep quickly, his long eyelashes fluttering shut against his cheeks.  It’s utterly unfair that he look this good with that many bruises and scrapes, Lovett thinks to himself, immediately feeling guilty for the thought.  Jon is _injured_ and _in pain_.  He should be allowed to be as beautiful as he likes.  Each one of his slow, even breaths is a miracle.  Lovett feels like he should tweet an all-caps celebration about the wonder of Jon Favreau’s beating heart, the warmth of his skin, the fact of his brain activity.  It’s amazing to Lovett that CNN will send a breaking news alert for every one of Trump’s tweets, but fails to do so about the phenomenon of Jon’s continued survival.

Lovett wonders if he took one of Jon’s pills by mistake.  His thoughts are a jumbled mess and he hasn’t made any effort to extricate his hand from Jon’s, sit up, and get out of this bed. _This isn’t for you_ , he thinks, even as he continues to lie still and watch Jon sleep.

 

 

 

Lovett blinks awake, disoriented in the morning light.  He had fallen asleep on top of the covers, but during the night he’d somehow wormed his way under them, closing the gap between him and Jon to bare inches.  Jon is on his back, face turned away from Lovett.  His good arm is flung out, laying heavy on Lovett’s chest like a steel bar, pinning him to the bed. _Mine_ , it seems to say, like an arm stretched over a suitcase at an airport—protective, possessive.  As if Jon is monitoring that Lovett is still there, that he hasn’t slipped away in the night.  

Which is exactly what Lovett needs to do.  He slides to the edge of the bed, feeling a small loss when Jon’s hand falls to the mattress with a soft _thump_.  He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, slipping out Jon’s door with as little noise as possible.

The dogs are awake and restless, so Lovett snaps on their leashes and takes them for a walk.  He’d normally just go around the block, but he stretches the route out, taking random turns and circling their neighborhood several times.  Only when Pundit starts lagging behind does he give in, following the dogs as they tug him back home.  As if they’re conspiring against him, Pundit doesn’t even list towards his house, instead following Leo happily to Jon’s door.

“Traitor,” he mutters, letting them off the leashes once they’re inside.  Pundit yaps cheerfully at him and races off after Leo.

Jon is sitting up in bed when Lovett walks back into the room, hovering near the doorway.  “Morning,” he says, scratching his head.  His hair is sticking up on the side and he has red crease lines on his face.  Lovett wants to trace them with his fingers, feel the ridges on his skin.  

“Do you need help walking?” he asks instead.  

“Yeah, I think so,” Jon says, looking apologetic.  

“No problem,” Lovett shrugs.  It’s fine.  It’s great.  Just another day of close, personal contact with a cuddly Jon Favreau.  No fucking problem.

Lovett waits to give Jon his pills until after he’s washed and dressed.  He figures it’ll be easier for Jon to manage more basic tasks before the Vicodin hits his system—but mostly, he doesn’t want to deal with Jon being overly-affectionate _and_ naked.  It’s bad enough when Jon checks out the road rash scabs on his side and asks Lovett, casually as anything, to help him dress and bandage it.  “It looks okay,” he says, twisting a little to peer down at his side.  “But it couldn’t hurt, right?”

“What?” Lovett asks, tearing his eyes away from Jon’s abs.  “Oh.  Yeah, sure.”  Which is how they wind up with Jon sitting on the bathroom counter, leaning back on both hands, while Lovett carefully applies a new bandage to Jon’s wounded side.  “Does it hurt?” he asks, worried, when Jon hisses.

Jon shakes his head.  “You’re good at this.” He smiles down at Lovett, mischievous.  “You have gentle hands.”

“Wanna bet?” Lovett retorts.  The back of his neck is hot and he feels drunk, off-balance.  “You know how many dishes I’ve broken in your house.”

“Yeah, but,” Jon shrugs, his stomach tensing and relaxing under Lovett’s fingers.  Lovett closes his eyes briefly.  “You’re gentle with me.  You’re good at this.”  Lovett shoots an incredulous look up at Jon, but sees no sarcasm or ridicule in his expression.  

“You know, it’s a proven phenomenon that people develop unusually strong feelings of gratitude and attachment to their caregivers,” Lovett says.

“Lovett,” Jon rolls his eyes.  “I’m trying to thank you.”

“How do you know I’m not going to kill you, like that nurse in the Stephen King book?” Lovett asks.  He’s claustrophobic in this small bathroom, feeling like the walls themselves are pressing him closer to Jon.

“I don’t think she was trying to kill him,” Jon says, sliding off the counter.  Lovett is now eye level with Jon’s Adam’s apple, which feels like an odd way to have a conversation, but he refuses to look up or down.  “Anyways, if you wanted to kill me you’d have had ample opportunity by this point.”

“Slow-acting poison,” Lovett says.  Jon’s hand has landed on his hip, gripping the soft fabric of his sweats.  “You won’t notice anything for weeks.”

“Okay,” Jon says, right into his ear.  Lovett jumps, startled into looking up.  Jon is leaning over him, the fading bruises on his face doing nothing to distract from his wide, dark eyes, or his perfect mouth.  He’s watching Lovett, an unreadable expression on his face.  Lovett is frozen, waiting for Jon to—to do _something_ , move away or kiss him or laugh at him, maybe.  He should move away himself, but for all that Lovett is good at not wanting things he can’t have, he’s useless at refusing things he wants when they’re available to him.  See, e.g., his favorite cake shop, Josh in Treasury who all but caused him to move away from D.C., trashy reality television.  And just like he’s utterly incapable of turning off a Real Housewives marathon, he’s not going to be able to refuse Jon if he—leans over, leans in, takes whatever he wants.

After a long, still moment, Jon drops his hand from Lovett’s hip.  He shoots Lovett a small smile.  “I think I can walk to the living room by myself,” he says, pushing off the counter.  

“Okay?”

“Just—stay close, could you?” Jon asks, glancing at Lovett over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Lovett nods, flustered.  “Yeah, of course.”

 

 

 

After breakfast, Lovett gives Jon two more pills, feeling distinctly creepy as he does so.  It’s not like he’s _roofying_ him, he insists to himself as he plops down onto the far end of the couch.  It’s not Lovett’s fault Jon’s physician-prescribed medication turns him into an aggressively tactile octopus.

Jon dozes off halfway through the third hour of the Today show, so Lovett switches to Netflix and puts on an old episode of _Frasier_.  He considers going into the guest room to grab his laptop, but he’s comfortable on the couch and Jon’s feet are digging into his thigh, warm and present.  So instead he drags Jon’s iPad over and swipes it open—2018 and the man still hasn’t enabled a screen lock on his electronic devices.  He uses the browser to log into his email, skimming through the unread messages that have piled up in two tiny days of neglect.

He replies to the more urgent sounding messages, deletes anything that doesn’t seem to directly involve him or require his input, and flags a few things that he’ll address once he actually manages to get on his laptop.  Feeling satisfied and productive, he closes the browser and finds himself staring down at Jon’s home screen.  Dozens of apps blink up at him, full of temptation: his messaging apps, Facebook, his own email.  Lovett’s thumb hovers over his photo app, wondering what he might find if he pressed down.  Jon’s Instagram feed is notoriously horrible, full of poorly lit shots of food, badly-framed photos of the dogs, and drunken group selfies with unflattering angles.  Lovett has never seen anyone with more street signs in their feed.  He can only imagine what Jon doesn’t choose to post, if he’s filtering anything at all—gym mirror selfies?  Photos of women he’s dated?  A suggestive shot of his torso, abs flexed and the vee of his hips in strong definition?  

Jon sighs in his sleep and Lovett closes the iPad, tossing it onto the other couch.  

He dozes off himself halfway through his third episode of _Frasier_ , only waking up when he feels movement on the couch.  He blinks his eyes open to find Jon has maneuvered himself around so he’s laying with his head in Lovett’s lap, his nose pressed to the soft curve of his stomach.  “Hey,” Lovett says blearily, one hand falling down to tangle in his short hair.  Jon exhales and presses his face into Lovett’s shirt.  

Lovett knows he should get up—shove Jon off, toss a pillow onto his spot for his head, scurry off to the kitchen or bathroom or backyard, a safe distance from whatever is happening.  But Jon noses Lovett’s stomach, letting out a soft, contented hum, and Lovett stays.

The television screen is dark—Jon must have turned it off when he woke up—and they hadn’t turned on any lights.  Even though it’s a sunny morning outside, the room itself is dim and shadowy.  Lovett can see golden dust motes dancing in the few patches of light coming from the kitchen, adding to the slow, surreal feeling of the moment.  It’s not real if time is frozen, if they’re in this half-shadowed, half-waking state.  He flashes, nonsensically, on his last birthday—devouring three slices of cake and demanding Jon buy him a burrito at two am on their way back from the party.   _I’m still dieting_ , he’d informed Jon sternly, after ordering extra cheese and sour cream, _but calories don’t count on my birthday_.  The burrito had been sinfully good, left him feeling gross and shitty the next day, and was clearly something Lovett was allowed to have only on the rarest of occasions.

Lovett closes his eyes and tightens his hand in Jon’s hair.  Jon groans, his hips rolling into the back of the couch.  “Feels good,” he mumbles into Lovett’s stomach.

“Yeah?” Lovett asks, scratching Jon’s scalp gently.  Jon moans, nuzzling further into Lovett’s stomach, one hand coming up to tangle in the fabric of his shirt.  “You alright?” Lovett asks, not really sure what he’s asking.  He’s feeling dumb and slow with Jon’s head in his lap, his fingers digging into his side.

“Perfect,” Jon says, and then he tugs Lovett’s shirt up and kisses his stomach.  

Lovett chokes on air, his hand tightening spasmodically in Jon’s hair, which just seems to spur him on.  Jon gets his hand under Lovett’s shirt, rucking it up as far as he can reach, scratching marks into his skin as he goes.  Lovett wants to squirm away, wants to protect his literal and figurative soft underbelly from this onslaught, but his limbs feel weighed down by sandbags, flooded and heavy with pleasure even as his heart races.  

Jon hums, pleased, as he bites down gently on the meat of Lovett’s stomach, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin.  “Lovett,” he groans, pushing up on his good arm to get more leverage, and then diving back in.  He licks a path up Lovett’s ribs, biting marks into his stomach as he goes, pushing his shirt further up so he can get his teeth around his nipple.

“Jon,” Lovett chokes, his hand dropping, heavy and useless, onto the couch.  He wants to cry, wants to push Jon away, wants to worm his way under Jon’s body and let him hide him away from the world.  “Please,” he says, plaintive, not knowing what he’s asking for.

“Shh,” Jon says, which is so unfair because he’s been saying Lovett’s name like a mantra, like he doesn’t want to forget who he’s with.  “Lovett,” he murmurs ( _see_ ), suckling his nipple, then, “what do you need?”

Lovett’s hips jerk up.  He’s painfully hard, rolling his hips into air as Jon continues to bite marks across his chest.  What does he _need_?  A manual for understanding Jon Favreau, maybe, or a time machine, or an invisibility cloak, or, god, or for Jon to never stop, never move his mouth away from that spot, right there, right—

But then Jon pushes further up, ignoring Lovett’s despairing groan, and kisses him.  There’s no build-up, no warning, just Jon’s soft lips on Lovett’s, taking advantage of Lovett being mid-complaint by slipping his tongue between Lovett’s unguarded lips.  He licks into his mouth, tonguing the roof of his mouth and causing arousal to zip through Lovett’s limbs like a spinning firecracker.

“Okay, god—just—wait,” Lovett says, breaking away, his voice far steadier than the screaming chaotic noise he’s experiencing in his head.  Jon makes a soft noise, chasing Lovett’s mouth for more.   _God_ , how is he going to survive this?  “You’re stoned,” Lovett says, planting one hand on Jon’s chest. The protest sounds weak even to his own ears, belied by the way his fingers curl into the soft fabric of Jon’s shirt, not so much pushing him off as holding him close.

“You’re hot,” Jon replies, and Lovett’s thoughts skitter to a halt.  Jon smiles—an unguarded, private thing, eyes dark and fixed on Lovett’s face—and then he shifts up to press their lips together again.

It’s good.  It’s so good.  It’s better than anything Lovett could have imagined, if he was the type of person to let himself want things like this: Jon, pliant and wanting and giving.  He also wants a Jon who takes, who demands, who pulls Lovett under like a tide—and a Jon who does both, and laughs at Lovett’s jokes, and smiles at him across a crowded room.  He wants everything, he realizes with a dull ache, even as he’s wrapping his arms around Jon and tugging him up for better access.

Lovett’s not stupid.  He’s known for a long time that he has a crush on Jon.  It’s well-worn, like an old pair of shoes.  Predictable.  Easy to manage.  But this, this realization, this is a—a crushing wave, an endless hurricane, upending every corner of his well-appointed life.  

He’s saved, horribly, by Jon jolting in pain when Lovett presses too hard into his wounded ribs.  Reality bleeds back in slowly, even as Jon continues to press insistently into him, tangling them together as much as his limited range of movement allows.  

“Jon, wait, stop,” he pants, breaking away.  Jon stills, a confused expression painting over his face.  Lovett is horrified to feel tears prickling behind his eyes—it’s just too much!  All at once!  His dick is rock-hard and his limbs aren’t moving and his entire torso probably looks like a war zone, and he can’t feel all those things and also deal with Jon looking like a kicked puppy, it’s just not fair.

But he also can’t let this continue.  It’s not even that Jon’s impaired, it’s that he’s _impaired_.  He’s going to wake up in a week, clear-headed and self-sufficient, and he’ll find some gentle, perfect way to tell Lovett that they can’t continue—whatever this is.  He’ll take all the blame on himself, and make some self-deprecating joke about his own sexual deficiencies, and Lovett will have to laugh and agree and then go out and fuck as many hot guys as he can manage for a month straight to prove to Jon that it meant nothing, that it all meant nothing.  He’s probably going to end up dating some West Hollywood gym bro named _Brent_ , someone with a cat and unfulfilled acting aspirations, and Lovett is going to stay with him forever because he’ll never be able to bear the humiliation of being single in front of Jon, ever again.  He’s going to end up married to fucking Brent in a two-bedroom Spanish villa with a bunch of fucking cats, going to his terrible one-act plays in the valley and pretending like he’s developing his craft and growing as an artist, and the sex is going to be dull and terrible after about six months, and then he’s going to die of boredom and it’ll all be Jon’s fault.

“Lovett?” Jon asks, his eyes fixed on Lovett’s.  “I’m sorry if I—I thought you—"

“We just shouldn’t—right now,” Lovett says in a rush, needing to do something to get that miserable, hangdog expression of Jon’s face.  “You’re—the pills.  Also, I don’t want to re-injure you.”

“We can be careful,” Jon says.  Lovett closes his eyes, remembering Jon saying _you’re gentle with me_ , and staring down at him with such warm, open trust.  

“Just—not—I need to go,” Lovett says, wishing he was allowed to shove an injured man onto the ground in order to escape.  “Can you let me up?”

Jon nods, his mouth a small, unhappy curve.  Lovett avoids eye contact until Jon has moved enough that he can slip out.  “Do you, uh,” he asks, turning towards Jon and then spinning away again.  “Do you need anything?  I’m gonna go—" he sticks a thumb in the direction of the guest room.

“No,” Jon shakes his head, playing with the seam of a couch cushion.  

Lovett can’t look at him for a second longer.  “Great,” he says, falsely cheerful.  “Holler if you need me!”  He spins on his heel and jets out of the room, not stopping until he’s shut into the guest room, back pressed against the door.

 

 

 

Lovett spends the rest of the afternoon preparing for that night’s Lovett or Leave It show.  Well, “preparing.”  He’s so distracted that he messages the team on slack, demanding that Sarah and Brian get on a conference call with him.  “I haven’t been paying attention to the news,” he complains when they’ve gathered in the conference room.  “I’m taking care of my very injured and incapacitated friend!”

“Lovett, you checked twitter halfway through the latest Star Wars movie,” Tommy says.

“First of all, that is a _lie_ ,” Lovett splutters.  “And you weren’t invited to be in this meeting.”

“The show is in six hours, you need all the help you can get,” Tommy points out, his smug, placid expression evident even over the phone.

“I don’t need any help, thank—"

“Lovett,” Tommy interrupts.  “Shut up and let us help you, would you?”

Lovett sighs.  “Fine.  And you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Tommy laughs.

Within an hour they have a working outline, sending it to Elijah so he can get the title cards and clips ready.  None of the sections are terribly fleshed out so it’s gonna be a loose show, but at least Lovett isn’t going to be naked on stage with nothing to say, like he is in so many of his nightmares.

He ventures out of the room mid-afternoon, tentative and unsure.  Jon isn’t on the couch or in the kitchen, and for a moment Lovett panics.  Did he lose him?  Is Tommy going to blame him for losing Jon in his own house?  Did he fall down and hurt himself somewhere?  Is he in pain, is he bleeding, is he _dying_?

The toilet in the hall bathroom flushes and a moment later Jon emerges.

“Hey,” Lovett says, too relieved to be nervous, at least for a second.  “You’re alive.”

Jon nods and shuffles forward, his steps stiff and slow.  He reaches Lovett and winds his arms around his waist, drawing him in.  “Sorry,” he mumbles, resting his forehead against Lovett’s.  

“It’s okay,” Lovett responds dumbly, his hands sliding up to grasp Jon’s upper arms.  Jon hums and ducks his head into Lovett’s neck, letting out a warm breath that Lovett feels down to his toes.  He’s heavy against Lovett, letting so much of his weight rest on him that Lovett feels his knees tremble.  “You okay?” he asks, rubbing one hand down Jon’s back.  Jon hums but doesn’t say anything—he’s probably taken his pills, Lovett realizes with a sinking feeling even as he squeezes Jon tighter.  

He considers pushing him away, putting a few feet of safe distance between them, but there’s something so intoxicating about having Jon like this—needy and clingy and wrapped around him—that Lovett can’t bring himself to break the moment.  They’ve already crossed so many lines, broken so many rules.  What’s one more minute going to hurt?

Jon huffs out a breath and pulls Lovett in tighter, flush against him.  The energy around them shifts suddenly, the heat around them ratcheting up.  Jon’s hand slides low on Lovett’s back, unmistakeable, and his mouth opens against his neck, his tongue darting out to taste Lovett’s skin.

“Uh—" Lovett says, jolting.  “So, Tommy’s coming over to hang out for the evening while I’m out.”

Jon’s head pops up, a frown worrying between his eyebrows.  “You’re leaving?”

“It’s Friday?” Lovett provides.  “My show is tonight.”  The tension bleeds out of Jon’s face but he still looks uncertain, which is probably why Lovett adds on, “I’ll be back right after.”  

Jon exhales, as if he’d been worried that Lovett would never return.  He stares at Lovett for a moment as if he’s cataloguing his every feature.  Lovett squirms internally, awkward under his gaze, and Jon’s eyes turn dark and sly.  Lovett knows what’s coming next.  He has enough time to slip away, dart around him—he could avoid this if he wanted to.  But he doesn’t stir, not when Jon tightens his arms, not when he grasps the back of his shirt in his fist; not until Jon lowers his head does Lovett move—pushing up to meet his lips with his own, kissing him messily, clumsily, swallowing his noises up like he needs them to survive.  Jon’s arms wind around his back and tug him in, the cast on his left arm rubbing rough against his spine, and it’s only the last-minute reminder of Jon’s injuries that keeps Lovett from trying to climb him like a tree.

They wind up against the wall, Jon crowding into Lovett like he wants to press him into the wallpaper.   _Oh my god,_ Lovett thinks feverishly, and he probably says it out loud, too, because Jon laughs into his mouth, makes a small noise that might be an agreement.  His good hand is under Lovett’s shirt, hot and large at the base of his spine, and then it’s slipping into the waistband of his pants.  Lovett tears away with a choked gasp, banging his head against the wall in surprise when Jon gets a hand on his ass and squeezes.  “Fuck,” he says breathlessly, trying to roll his hips down onto Jon’s thigh.

“Tommy’s going to be here any minute,” Jon says roughly into his ear, letting Lovett continue to bear down on him.  “Think you can get off before he shows up?  Or would you rather wait.”  Lovett inhales sharply, hiding his face in Jon’s chest.  “You’d be thinking about this all night, wouldn’t you?  Waiting to get home so I can take care of you, give you what you need.”

“Where the— _fuck—"_  Lovett chokes, clenching at Jon’s shoulders like a life raft, “is this coming from?”  A moment ago he’d barely seemed able to carry on a conversation, and now dirty talk was spilling off his tongue.

Jon presses Lovett into the wall with his whole body.  “God,” he groans, kissing the side of Lovett’s face messily.  “I’m crazy, you make me crazy.”

“ _I_ do?” Lovett asks incredulously, feeling trapped.  Surrounded.  He can’t even roll his hips anymore, not with Jon holding him tight against the wall.  “Jon—" he wants to cry.  “ _Please_.”

Jon pulls back a fraction, enough that Lovett can look up and see his face—flushed red, eyes blown, mouth bitten and wet like a teenage fantasy.  He _does_ look crazy, absolutely frantic.  It makes Lovett want to duck his head again, hide his face in Jon’s chest so he doesn’t have to see whatever is happening in his eyes, so he doesn’t have to wonder how much is _him_ and how much might be the pills.  “Lovett,” Jon says hoarsely, one hand coming up to tangle in his curls.

The doorbell rings.

“Fuck!” Lovett shouts, banging his head against the wall once again.  “Ouch.”

Jon laughs, kissing Lovett’s ear and tucking a curl behind it.  “How is he always so punctual?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Lovett grumbles, then pushes at Jon’s chest.  “Let me up, I gotta go—compose myself.”

“You look perfect,” Jon says but he backs up, letting Lovett squirm out of his grasp.  Like the coward he is, Lovett jets into the bathroom and leaves Jon to deal with Tommy.  Only once he’s splashed cold water on his face and stared at himself for several long, insane seconds in the mirror and then splashed cold water on his face _again_ , does he emerge from the bathroom to find Jon and Tommy on the couch in the living room, chatting casually like the world isn’t tilting dangerously off its axis.

“Hey!” Tommy says, twisting around to smile at him.  “You ready for tonight?”

“You bet,” Lovett mumbles, eyes dancing towards Jon and then away again.  “Uh, thanks again for the help.”

“Of course,” Tommy says easily.  “Have fun, can’t wait to listen later.”

“Yeah,” Lovett says, but he’s looking at Jon, who’s smiling back up at him as if Lovett just said something brilliant and hilarious.  “Okay, great, don’t break him while I’m gone,” he says, fast and high, before spinning on his heel and power walking to the door.

It feels odd to leave the house, like he’s leaving a suspended reality and re-entering the real world.  Everything feels disturbingly ordinary—the buildings and roads are all the same as he navigates through typical Friday night LA traffic.  A billboard advertises the new HBO miniseries he’d been discussing with Tanya last week.  A group of people pour out of his favorite Mexican restaurant on La Cienega, where he’d taken his parents when they’d visited last fall.  All the trappings of his life are the same as they were yesterday.  It feels impossible that there’s been this seismic shift and somehow nothing else has been impacted.  Why are there no glaring neon signs screaming _JON FAVREAU PUT HIS MOUTH ON YOURS_ , so that he knows he didn’t imagine the whole thing?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and then again a second later.  By the time he’s parked in the alley behind the Improv, he has a dozen texts waiting for him, all from Jon.

_I’m thinking about you_

_Not like—not like that, Tommy’s still here.  But there’s a thought, isn’t it?_

_Are you going to be able to do the show tonight without thinking about me?_

_Do you think they’ll all know?_

_What I’m going to do to you tonight, what you want me to do to you?_

_I wish I could fuck you tonight_

_God, you’d look so good taking it, wouldn’t you_

_I’m still going to take care of you, give you everything you need_

_You want it, right?_

_Lovett?_

_Shit, is this too much?  I’m sorry, I don’t want to freak you out_

_Forget I said anything_

By the time Lovett reaches the last text, he’s breathing hard, his knuckles white around his phone.  He leans forward, pressing his forehead to his steering wheel with a loud groan.  Who could have ever guessed that Jon would turn into such a—a freak, a nightmarish sex freak apparently sent back in time specifically to destroy Lovett?  What on _earth_.

His phone buzzes again.   _Sorry again.  Have a good show_ , the message reads, Jon’s hangdog expression evident even through the text.  

Lovett snorts and writes back, _I was driving, you dumbass._

The typing notification pops up immediately, and Lovett smiles, heart thumping, to think of Jon watching for his response and eagerly jumping to reply. _Haha, right, should’ve realized_ , he writes back, then, _so...did I freak you out?_

 _Yes_ , Lovett types, then quickly deletes.  His thumbs hover over the screen, uncertain.   _Not exactly the word I would use_ , he sends instead, hoping it’s ambiguous enough to satisfy Jon for now.  He can’t get into a sext exchange half an hour before he has to be onstage, he might actually die.

Jon sends a laughing emoji, and then a simple _good_.  Lovett stares at the word.  It feels full of promise and intention, a knife dangling above his head ready to fall at any moment.  He imagines Jon at home, half-paying attention to whatever Tommy is saying, thinking about what he’ll do to Lovett when he comes home.  Planning.  Plotting.

Lovett swallows and closes his phone.  It’s going to be a long night.

 

 

 

“Hey!” Jon beams at him from the couch when he walks in the door, looking almost as eager to see Lovett as the three dogs sniffing at his feet.  Lovett gets a brief, unwanted flash of Jon on all fours in front of him, wagging his rear eagerly, and needs to close his eyes and think about Ted Cruz smiling at him in order to make the visual go away.

“Hey,” Lovett says, dropping his bag and coming to join them in the living room.  He catches a whiff of something and pauses in the doorway, suspicion growing when he sees Tommy stifle a sheepish laugh.  “Did you smoke up in here?”

Tommy and Jon both burst out laughing as if Lovett has said something far funnier than he actually did.  This isn’t, in fact, all that different from their typical behavior around him, but Tommy smiles blearily at him and gestures to the supplies on the table.  “Hanna sent Jon some of her stash as a get well soon gift,” he explains.  “We’re trying it instead of the painkillers.”

“It’s working great,” Jon says happily, tilting his head back to smile up at Lovett.  “We’ve been watching _Bojack Horseman_.”

“Without me?” Lovett exclaims, outraged.  He sits on the couch a few feet from Jon, curling his legs up underneath his butt.  “I can’t believe I’ve been out _working_ to _build our empire_ and you two delinquents have—"

“Lovett, shut up and smoke some weed,” Jon cuts him off, grinning widely at him from the other end of the couch.  He tilts his head to the side, his smile slipping into something artful, even sly.  Lovett tries to read into his expression, but Jon just raises an eyebrow—a challenge, a dare.  Well.  Fine, then.

He takes two quick hits off the pipe, coughing roughly after the second one.  He steals Jon’s beer, the cold liquid soothing his raw throat as he gulps it down.  When he’s done he glances over to see Jon’s eyes fixed on him, color high on his cheeks.  “Here,” Lovett says, handing the beer back to him.  Jon wraps his fingers around Lovett’s on the bottle, holding him there until Lovett tugs them away.

He’s been watching Pundit and Lucca play for a few minutes when he notices that the weed is working.  “Shit,” he says, looking up at Tommy.  “Hanna has a good hook-up.”

“Right?” Tommy says, rubbing the back of his head.  “This is one of her favorites.  It’s really great for having sex,” he adds, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.  Lovett laughs, managing through some miracle not to look right at Jon to see his reaction.  He can feel Jon staring at him, burning a hole into the side of his head, but he turns his focus back to the television and avoids eye contact.

They’re halfway through another episode of _Bojack_ and Lovett is feeling amazing.  He wants to sink his feet into the gaps between the couch cushions, or to run a hot bath and float in hot, sweet-smelling water.  He feels so good and he wants to feel _more_ of this, wants to jack off slowly for hours, wants to flatten himself over Jon and kiss him until his tongue goes numb, wants to stretch out on the carpet and do only the easiest yoga poses.  Jesus, he’s going to need to get the name of Hanna’s weed guy, this shit is _amazing_.

His phone buzzes and Lovett tugs it out of his pocket, stretching his legs out towards the middle of the couch as he leans against the arm to check his messages.  It’s from Jon. _How’re you feeling?_

Lovett’s eyes flit up, catching Jon’s for a brief second before darting back to his phone screen. _Stoned as fuck.  You?_

_Same.  Feels good, doesn’t it_

Lovett chews the inside of his lip, trying to think of something else to say.  He knows there are reasons this is a bad idea, but right now he feels so amazing and he wants to keep feeling this way, just for a little while longer.  Why can’t he stretch this moment out, enjoy this weird, stolen week to its fullest?  So he might get his heart broken when it’s all over.  That’s future Lovett’s problem.  Present Lovett is sinking low into the couch, his feet stretching out to bump against Jon’s thigh.  Jon grins down at him, wrapping his fingers around one of Lovett’s ankles.  He scratches up under the cuff of Lovett’s pants, his long fingers reaching almost all the way to his calf.  

Time grows hazy after that.  Lovett loses track of what’s on the television, or what Tommy is saying.  One episode bleeds into the next, and at some point Tommy calls a Lyft and collects Lucca and goes.  Lovett waves contentedly from his spot on the couch, letting out a little breath when the door closes behind Tommy.  He waits for Jon to pounce—or at least make whatever move he’s physically capable of—but Jon just smiles at him and turns his focus back to the television.  Lovett stares at him, wanting to—to demand what he was offered, to collect on Jon’s promises, but Jon squeezes his ankle and Lovett settles, deciding he can be patient.

His whole world shrinks down to the couch they’re sitting on, to Jon’s hand cupping the back of his knee, tickling the seam on his inner thigh, running down his legs to squeeze his ankles and back up.  He didn’t know leg groping could be this hot, but he’s going crazy with every sweep of Jon’s fingers over his kneecap.  Lovett imagines spreading his legs wide, letting Jon settle in between them to mouth at his cock through the fabric of his sweats, grinding against him until they both come in their pants.  He thinks about Jon flipping him over and yanking his pants down, frantic and possessive, palming his ass cheeks apart and roughly fingering his hole.  He wonders if Jon would lick him there, suck the skin around his rim and drive his tongue into him, over and over, until Lovett is loose and spit-slick and crying from it, begging for something bigger, something harder, something to fill him up the way he needs.

Lovett blinks and looks up.  Jon’s eyes are fixed on Lovett’s crotch, which is tented and humiliatingly obvious.  “Oh,” Lovett chokes, curling up a little to try and hide the evidence, but—“no,” Jon says, putting his hands on Lovett’s knees to still them, “wait.”

Lovett stills, his legs held apart by Jon’s grip, feeling open and exposed under his gaze.  Jon swallows, running his hands down the inside of Lovett’s thighs, kneading as he plies them further apart.  Lovett, getting with the program, rolls his hips up, sliding one hand down his stomach and dipping his fingers into the waistband of his pants.  Jon shudders, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Lovett’s knee, his hands white-knuckled on his thighs.  “God,” he mumbles, biting down on the fabric on the inside of Lovett’s knee.  “The things I want to do to you.”

“Like what?” Lovett says, face hot.  “How are you going to take care of me?”

Jon starts tugging at the legs of Lovett’s pants, trying to pull them off.  The stretchy fabric slides easily over his ass once Lovett lifts it up to assist, and in a minute they’re on the floor.  Jon slides his hands down to the creases of Lovett’s thighs, skimming the edges of his briefs.  He’s breathing heavily, his attention fixed on the bulge of Lovett’s cock.  “If I wasn’t injured,” he said, his thumbs dipping under the hem of Lovett’s briefs, pressing into the delicate skin underneath, “I’d fuck you tonight.  I’d suck you off and then finger you open while you got hard again, and then I’d fuck you until you came all over yourself again.”  Lovett’s knees tremble as he continues to hold them wide, hold himself open for Jon’s hungry stare.  “I’d eat you out for hours, spread you across my bed and hold you down until you begged me to stop—"

“Okay!” Lovett gasps, frantically clambering to his knees, unable to stay still anymore.  “Just—tell me if it hurts,” he says, and climbs into Jon’s lap, straddling him.  “Tell me if it—"

“It’s good, it’s good,” Jon says quickly, tugging Lovett down to kiss him.  He kisses the way he does everything—committed and joyful, like every nerve in his body is tuned to a single purpose.  Lovett drinks it in, wanting to seal himself to Jon, wanting to drown in the sensation of his mouth on his, his cock pressing against his ass, his good arm winding around his back to hold him tight.  “You’re perfect,” he mumbles when Lovett breaks away, sucking a line down his throat.  “Do you know how ama—" but Lovett doesn’t let him continue, swallowing up his words again with a kiss.

Jon reaches down with his good hand, fumbling as he pushes his own sweats and boxers low on his hips.  Lovett lifts up to help him, his breath catching when Jon’s cock springs free.  It’s long and thick and pink, mouth-wateringly hard.  Lovett swallows when Jon reaches down to stroke himself, tracking the movement of his hand as he gives himself a couple rough tugs.  

“Okay,” Lovett breathes, and then again, “okay.”  He stands long enough to shove his own briefs down.  Once he’s back in Jon’s lap he takes himself in hand, gripping Jon’s shoulder as he jacks off.  “Is this what you want?” he asks Jon, forcing himself to look him in the eye.  “Is this what you wanted to see?”

“Yes, god, it’s—" Jon shakes his head, pulling Lovett in and pressing his hot face into his neck.  “I want to do so much more, though,” he says in a desperate, tight voice.

“You can,” Lovett says mindlessly, sliding their cocks together.  Jon groans and shifts his hand so he’s gripping them both.  “You can do anything, you can do everything you want,” and suddenly he’s coming, surprising them both.  Jon looks down at Lovett’s cock, come still dripping through his fingers and onto his own cock.  Lovett closes his eyes, overwhelmed and limp.

Jon spreads Lovett’s come over his fingers and continues to stroke them together, even as Lovett hisses, over-sensitive and newly fragile.  “Jon,” he whimpers, trying to squirm away, but Jon tightens his grip and his hold on Lovett’s back, keeping him still.

“You said,” he reminds Lovett roughly, “you said anything I want.”  Lovett nods, tears prickling at the back of his eyes, and he presses his fevered face into Jon’s chest.  “That’s good, you’re so good,” Jon whispers, his lips skimming Lovett’s ear.  “Can’t believe you’re letting me—" and then he chokes, and seizes up, and comes loudly.  

Lovett stays pressed against him as Jon rides out his orgasm, as he continues to stroke them both through it.  “Fuck,” he mumbles finally, his head tipping back against the couch cushion.  “I haven’t come that hard in years.”

“Tell me about it,” Lovett mutters, not ready to leave the safety of Jon’s chest.  Jon is rubbing his back in wide, warm circles under his shirt, and pressing soft kisses to his hairline.  They’re sticky and his legs are starting to cramp, but nothing could make Lovett want to move in this moment.  He tips his head up and catches Jon’s jaw with his lips, then his mouth.  They kiss lazily for several long minutes, until Lovett’s leg fully falls asleep and Jon starts to make a pained face everytime Lovett brushes his side.

Jon follows Lovett when he stands, reaching down to link their hands together.  Lovett glances down and bursts out laughing at the state they’re in—come-stained and half-undressed, each of them marked up and rumpled.  He glances up at Jon, a grin on his face, but Jon isn’t laughing.  He’s staring at Lovett like a starving man eyes a steak—greedy, and wanting, and weak against temptation.

“Right, I need a shower,” Lovett says loudly, slipping his hand from Jon’s and taking a few steps back.  He lifts his shirt to examine the come stains on his briefs and thighs, exposing several bite marks left by Jon that morning.  “Look what you did to me!” he mutters, glaring up at Jon.

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently.  Jon’s eyes darken and he advances on Lovett.  “Let me see,” he says, peeling Lovett’s shirt up to show even more marked up skin.  “I did all this?” he asks, wonderingly.

“Either you or the werewolf I encountered on my way home tonight,” Lovett says, aiming for disgruntled and falling closer to breathless.  It’s hard to stay angry when Jon is looking at him like he is, his fingers tracing a bite mark like it’s a precious talisman.  “Okay, weirdo,” he tries again.  “Time to shower.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees, still feeling up Lovett’s torso.  “Let’s go.”

Lovett doesn’t have time to explain that he meant separate showers before Jon is shepherding them into the master bathroom.  For someone critically injured just a few days earlier, he’s recovered a shocking amount of speed and strength.  Lovett barely manages to convince Jon to let him wrap his cast in plastic before being herded into the shower and pressed against the tile under the hot spray.

Lovett likes to shower quickly—shampoo, soap up a few key areas, rinse off, get out.  Five minutes tops.  Jon, if this shower is anything to go by, would spend his entire day in the shower, scrubbing every inch of skin clean.  He takes the sponge and soaps Lovett up, rubbing the sponge in circles on his stomach, his chest, his back.  He crouches down to clean Lovett’s legs, sucking water off the insides of his thighs and nosing at his soft cock.  “Turn around,” he instructs, pushing at Lovett’s hip until he faces the tile, braced on his arms with his ass sticking out.  Jon rubs soap into Lovett’s crack, continuing to rub back there even after the water has washed him clean.  Lovett moans into his arms every time Jon’s finger catches on his hole, wanting to push back onto it, slide onto his finger just a little, just the get the tip inside him…

“Okay!” he cries finally, when it appears that Jon has every intention of kneeling behind him all night, perpetually teasing him and never giving him what he needs.  “Give me a towel, I’m getting all pruney.”

Jon stands, but instead of letting Lovett up he presses into his back, sucking a mark into his neck.  The water is running cold and Lovett’s fingers are fully wrinkled, but he groans and tips his head to the side, granting Jon better access.  “Jon,” he says again, weakly.  “Towel.”  Jon laughs, closing his teeth on the juncture of Lovett’s shoulder and neck one more time before releasing him.

After they’re clean and dry, Jon tugs Lovett towards his bed, blanketing over him once they’re under the covers.  So apparently now they’re cuddling, too, Lovett despairs as Jon settles happily over him.  “This can’t be good for your ribs,” he mumbles, smoothing a hand over Jon’s bicep.

“It’s okay,” Jon mumbles drowsily.  “If I get injured again, you’ll take care of me.”

Lovett’s swallows around the lump in his throat, letting out a heavy breath.  “Yeah,” he agrees, closing his eyes.  “Yeah, of course I will.”

 

 

 

Lovett dreams he’s rolling down a grassy knoll, and wakes up to the sensation of being flipped onto his stomach by a strong pair of hands.  “Whu—" he says dumbly into a mouthful of pillow, and then he shouts as fingers spread his ass apart and a mouth lands on his hole.  He groans loudly, pressing his ass up into Jon’s mouth, arching his back into it.  In the absence of higher brain function, which he seems to be totally robbed of at the moment, his body at least knows how to get with the program.  “Holy _shit—_ Jon,” he gasps as a tongue drives into him, unhesitating and unmerciful.  

Lovett never wrote a State of the Union address before he met Jon Favreau.  He never flew on Air Force One, he never shook hands with members of the British Royal Family, and he never stood in front of a cheering audience of thousands before Jon came into his life.  Another thing to add to that list: being woken up by the best rimming of his life.  He’s been awake for less than a minute and he’s already dangerously closely to coming.

“Wait, _wait,_ ” he gasps, reaching back to fruitlessly shove at Jon’s head.  Jon swats his hand away and pulls back, catching his breath and biting down on the curve of his right cheek.  Lovett lets his body collapse into the mattress, somehow equally boneless and turned on beyond all belief.  “You are—" he rolls his face into his pillow, feeling arousal spread through his limbs when Jon kisses the crease of his thigh, “an absolute maniac.”

Jon laughs.  “Morning,” he says, nosing at the dark space behind Lovett’s balls.  Lovett’s never been closer to fainting while laying down.

“Get off,” he manages, rolling forcibly onto his back, his legs twisting on the way.  Jon shifts out of the way and stretches out next to him, a proud grin on his face.  

“Did you like it?” he asks, scooting closer to kiss him.

“You’re giving me beard burn,” Lovett complains, but he tips his chin up to accept Jon’s kiss.  

“Yeah,” Jon chuckles.  “You should see what your thighs look like.”  Rather than apologetic, he sounds delighted with himself.  

Lovett rolls his eyes, even as arousal zips through his gut.  He reaches up to tug on Jon’s five-day-old beard.  It’s a little patchy, but it looks good on him—mostly dark with some silver shot through.  He should’ve guessed that Jon would age beautifully.  He can see Jon ten years from now in distinguished middle age, more grey and more lined and more handsome for it all.  He wonders who’ll be waking up next to him, picking out the new grey hairs in his morning stubble, appreciating his laugh lines and softening belly, giggling when their kids jump into bed with them.  It’s such a perfect image—haloed in light, full of laughter and joy and happiness—he wants that for Jon, more than anything.  And yet, he feels empty and cold when he realizes that he’s going to be forced to watch it happen, up close, unable to look away.

“Hey,” Jon says.  Lovett blinks and he comes into focus—gone are the deeper lines and the whiter hairs and the picture-perfect family, and left behind is just Jon, just as Lovett knows him.  He smiles at Lovett, a little uncertain, and then slips closer to kiss him again.  “Want to help me shave?” he asks, rubbing his face against Lovett’s cheek.

“Ugh, yes, fine,” Lovett grumbles, shoving him away.  

In the bathroom, Jon lathers his face up and scoots up onto the counter, spreading his legs wide enough that Lovett can slip in between them.  Lovett picks up the razor, getting it wet and setting it against Jon’s neck.  Somehow, despite all the ways they’ve been up close and personal with each other’s bodies up to this point, this feels the most intimate by far.  They’re so close they’re sharing air, and they’re wound up together in a dozen ways—Jon’s hands on his sides, his legs twined behind his thighs, Lovett’s hand in Jon’s hair, gently tipping his head back to expose his throat.  “Stay still,” he says softly, sliding the blade up.

Each swipe of the blade feels like a kiss he’s leaving on Jon’s skin.  He finishes shaving Jon’s jaw and throat and wipes it off carefully, leaning in to kiss his Adam’s apple, suck a light mark under his jaw.  Jon’s throat jumps under his lips, his hands tightening around Lovett’s waist.  He leaves one last kiss on the side of his neck and pulls back to continue his work.  As he shaves his right cheek, he breathes softly on the freshly smooth skin, blowing warm air in the path of the blade.  Jon closes his eyes, his chest heaving.  “You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, tilting his head where Lovett indicates.  

“Serves you right,” Lovett smirks.  “Now shut up, I’m getting to your chin.”

When Lovett finishes the final swipe up Jon’s cheek, he doesn’t even bother cleaning his face.  Instead he drops immediately to his knees and yanks at Jon’s boxers, tugging them down and pulling him off the counter in the process.  Jon barely has enough time to get his feet under him before Lovett has swallowed his cock all the way to the hilt, his nose pressed against Jon’s stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon shouts, his hips driving forward.  Lovett follows the motion of his hips and manages to keep from gagging, but just barely.  “Shit, I’m sorry—Lovett, holy fuck—sorry, I’m sorry.”

Lovett moans around Jon’s cock and looks up, latching eyes with Jon.  He squeezes his thigh, hoping to calm him down so he can give him the blowjob he’s been dreaming about.  Jon seems to understand, letting out a shaky breath and nodding, dropping his good hand into Lovett’s hair.  Lovett hums in satisfaction, pushing back against the hand minutely.   _Go ahead_ , he wants to tell Jon, pulling back to suck on the head, his tongue tracing a line on the underside of his cock.  Lovett’s cock grows heavier when Jon presses down, gently at first and then firmer.   _Good_ , he thrills, following the press of Jon’s hand and swallowing him down again.

After that it’s perfect.  He opens his throat and lets Jon drive into it, sucking hard when he draws out.  He wraps his hand around Jon’s cock when he pulls back, gets his fingers slick with spit and pre-come.  When Jon pushes him back down on his cock, Lovett slips his hand behind his balls, seeking out his hot, puckered hole.  He presses at the rim with one wet fingertip; Jon feels so tight, Lovett wonders if anyone has ever done this to him before.  Judging by Jon’s high, shocked noises, he guesses not.  It makes him crazy to think about Jon going through life without knowing what it feels like to have something inside him, without experiencing the white-hot pleasure when a cock drags at exactly the right spot.  He knows about Jon’s sexual prowess, knows far too many details about the women he’s taken home and the many ways he’s made them come.  For a gay man, he could probably competently give a woman an orgasm based on nothing but secondhand boasting courtesy of Jon and Tommy.  He wonders if Jon’s been similarly collecting information—cataloguing details about how Lovett likes to get fucked, about his favorite ways to come and to make other men come.  It’s humiliating yet thrilling to think of Jon mentally recording his crass, drunken tales of the men he’s fucked, filing it away for this rainy day scenario.

Well.  For all Jon may have learned about Lovett over the years, he still has a lot to learn about himself—and Lovett is more than happy to introduce him to a few things.  He pushes the tip of his finger into Jon’s hole and takes his cock all the way down, applying as much suction as he can with his throat as open as it is.  It’s enough.  Jon chokes and his cock pulses, coming in hot, long spurts down his throat.  Lovett swallows every drop, pulling off just in time to rub the last pearly drops from his cockhead onto his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the saltiness of Jon’s come.  Jon sags against the counter with a ragged breath.

The pride and triumph crest and Lovett is left with an aching heaviness in his cock, and a desperation that feels like a chasm.  He whimpers and presses his face into Jon’s thigh, wanting to stay in this moment a little longer—the taste of Jon’s come on his tongue, his hand in his hair, his thigh flexing and tensing under his hand.  “Lovett,” Jon says, tugging at his hair.  Lovett groans, clenching his ass and rolling his hips.  He wants to get fucked _so badly_ he wants to cry from it.  He can’t let Jon see him like this, so desperate and wild for it it must be painted all over his face, so he keeps his head pressed against Jon’s leg.  “Lovett,” Jon tries again, making a weak grab for his shoulders.  “Come up here, please.”

“No,” Lovett mumbles, feeling hot humiliation spread down the back of his neck.  He’s foolish and weird and this is when Jon figures it out, the moment Lovett becomes too much for him.  The longer he stays down here, the longer he puts off that inevitable moment.

“ _Baby_ ,” Jon says, and Lovett clenches his thigh tighter, white-hot joy bursting through his veins.  It’s a false flag, he knows, but he can’t help but chase that endorphin rush.  He looks up finally, and Jon sighs in relief, tugging him up.  “Come here,” he says impatiently, bending down to kiss him.  He groans when he tastes his own come in Lovett’s mouth, licking into him to chase the flavor, lap up every drop of himself on Lovett’s tongue.  “You taste—god, you’re just—" he mumbles, keeping both hands on Lovett’s jaw, holding him still.

Lovett shudders, pushing into Jon’s arms and winding himself around him.  “You’re so hard,” Jon says, pleased as punch, reaching down to squeeze Lovett’s ass.  “How do you want to get off?”

 _With you inside me_ , Lovett thinks, but doesn’t say.  He honestly doesn’t want to move from Jon’s embrace, not even far enough to fit his own hand into his underwear.  Instead he rolls his hips into Jon’s thighs, once, twice, picking up a rhythm.  

Jon squeezes his ass approvingly.  “Like this?” he says in Lovett’s ear.  “You want to just rub yourself off on me, you’re that desperate for it?”

Lovett nods, wordless, not protesting when Jon tilts his head back to kiss him again.  Jon pulls back but keeps Lovett’s face tilted towards him.  “Let me watch,” he murmurs, kissing Lovett’s flushed cheeks, his closed eyelids.  “Let me see it happen.”

“God,” Lovett chokes, humiliation running hot through him.  “Jon, please,” he begs, not sure what he’s asking for.

“That’s it, honey,” Jon says, his long thumbs rubbing Lovett’s cheekbones.  “I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Lovett feels like he’s suspended fifty feet off the ground, arms and legs tugged in different directions.  He feels exposed and at risk, but somehow perfectly safe at the same time.  Jon has him.  Jon won’t let him fall.  

Jon kisses him again, filthy and open.  “Come for me, please, can you come for me?” he asks, sounding as desperate for it to happen as Lovett feels.  Lovett opens his eyes to see Jon staring back at him, his eyes dark and blown out.  As if a reward for finally opening his eyes, Jon drives his leg up, meeting Lovett’s thrust halfway.  

“Oh, _god_ ,” Lovett gasps, and comes.

Jon kisses him through it, murmuring praise and filthy words into his mouth.  He slips his hand in between their bodies to palm at Lovett’s still-twitching cock, shuddering when he gets his hand around it.  “You did so good,” he says, kissing the side of Lovett’s face.  “You looked so fucking good like that.”

Lovett sags against him with a weak laugh, and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

Lovett manages to escape Jon’s octopus grip once they’re out of the bathroom, slipping into the guest room to pull on fresh clothes.  He plugs his phone back in and is about to turn to leave when he notices the bottle of Vicodin sticking out of his jacket pocket, right where he’d left them the day before.  He stares at them in confusion, his mind already spinning as he tries to remember the last time he gave Jon his dose.  Was it last night?  Yesterday morning?  He definitely didn’t take any this morning, and yet Lovett had still been woken up by Jon driving his tongue into his ass.  Lovett turns the bottle of pills over, trying to make sense of it, but it’s like trying to multiply twenty by avocado.  Some fundamental piece is out of place.  

“Hey,” Jon says from the doorway.  Lovett jumps, spinning around.  “Sorry,” Jon grins, raising his hands in supplication.  “Feel like breakfast?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lovett says, dropping the pills on the bedspread and following Jon out of the room.  He stares at Jon’s back as he rummages through the fridge, as if he could peer right into his center and figure out all his secrets.  But it remains solid, keeping Jon’s confidence.

Jon fixes them a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, scooting his barstool closer to Lovett’s when he sits down.  He rests his foot on Lovett’s stool, one hand on his knee as he eats.  It’s distracting, and frankly irritating—Lovett can barely concentrate on his food while Jon is touching him, let alone try and figure out what vital piece of information he seems to be missing.

“You’re handsy this morning,” he mutters, shoveling eggs into his mouth in order to avoid looking at Jon.

“I want to touch you,” Jon replies simply, squeezing Lovett’s knee.  Jon’s always been good at that—saying exactly what he wants, wearing his heart on his sleeve so brazenly.  Lovett has never understood that desire, to expose your soft underbelly to the world and just trust that they’ll treat it kindly—but then, he supposes that’s what a life of kind treatment would engender in someone.  

Lovett doesn’t respond, concentrating on his plate.  He senses Jon’s eyes on him and his neck burns red, traitorously.  Jon shifts closer, kissing Lovett’s shoulder and the side of his neck, peeling back the collar of his shirt to suck on the knob of his spine.  Lovett’s hand tightens on his fork, the eggs in his mouth and his knees turning to rubber at the same moment.  “Jon—" he says after he manages to swallow, but Jon continues his onslaught against his neck, his hand sliding around to rest on his stomach, wide and possessive.

“I couldn’t wait to wake you up this morning, you know,” he mumbles, kissing a spot behind Lovett’s ear that makes his vision go wavy.  

“You—you couldn’t?” Lovett asks, tipping his head.

“I was awake for awhile, just watching you sleep—"

“—okay, creepy—"

“—and it felt like Christmas morning, like you were a present I had to wait to unwrap.  You were just laying there—your shirt was a little rucked up and I could see the marks I’d left—" he slides his hand under Lovett’s shirt to spread over the curve of his stomach.  “I wanted to see them again, and make more.  Kiss you everywhere—" he demonstrates this by kissing Lovett’s jaw, tracing a line up his cheek.  “And then I started to think of all the places I _hadn’t_ touched yet, and, well—"

“Well,” Lovett says, his dry throat clicking as he tries to swallow, “I’ll admit it wasn’t the worst way I’ve ever been woken up.”

“I’m glad to hear you approve,” Jon says dryly, sealing his mouth over Lovett’s.

They probably could have stayed there all morning, half on top of each other at the kitchen island, but the dogs start barking at the door.  “That was Leo,” Lovett mumbles against Jon’s lips.

“It was both of them,” Jon laughs, pulling back.  “I think it’s time for their walk.”

“I’ll take them out,” Lovett says.  He could honestly use a few minutes to himself, to try and make sense of everything—and to try to decide what to do about it.

“I can come with,” Jon says.  “I’m feeling up for a walk.”

“No, it’s fine—"

“I’d like to.  Plus I’ve been cooped up for a week, I need to get out.”

Lovett has no argument against that, so they tug on their shoes and clip leashes on their eager, barking dogs and walk outside.  Jon inhales when he steps out his door, wincing slightly as his ribs expand.  They walk in silence for a few minutes, the only noise they hear being the distant sound of cars on other streets and the birds in the trees.

“This is great,” Jon says eventually.  “I’m starting to feel like a real person again.”

Lovett glances up at him.  The bruising on his face is significantly reduced—even most of the faded yellow-green coloring has disappeared.  He’s walking with little difficulty, and based on Lovett’s recent up-close-and-personal familiarity with Jon’s torso, the road rash on his side is well on its way to healed.  Soon the only remaining evidence of his injuries will be his broken arm, and even that cast is due to come off in a little over a month.

Soon Jon won’t need him anymore.  In fact, that day may have already arrived.  

Jon smiles at him and reaches down to tangle their fingers together.  Lovett startles, shying away.  “Don’t!” he snaps, yanking his hand back.  He’s immediately filled with regret when Jon’s face crumples, his brow furrowing and his mouth twisting in confusion. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, reaching back for his hand and kissing the sad, lost look off his face.   _I didn’t mean it_.

Instead he gives Jon a forced, awkward smile.  “I’m not big on PDA,” he says lamely.  “Hand holding.  Gross.”

“Okay?” Jon says, still looking uncertain.  “Sorry.  Won’t happen again.”

Lovett turns away and keeps walking, Jon taking a few long strides to catch up.  He doesn’t reach for Lovett again, or say a word the rest of the walk.  By the time they get back to the house, Jon’s bad mood is radiating off of him in waves, evident in the way he kicks his shoes off and won’t look at Lovett when he hands him Leo’s leash to hang up.  He walks into the kitchen without a word, pouring himself a glass of water and drinking it while staring out the window.

Lovett hovers awkwardly in the doorway, trying to figure out if he should say something.  He feels guilty, responsible for Jon’s current funk, and while his bad moods never last long, there’s nothing in the world Lovett hates more than Jon being mad at him.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asks, walking into the kitchen.

“No, my ribs fucking hurt,” Jon snaps, keeping his back turned.  Lovett bristles, wanting to snap back that it’s not _his_ fault Jon wanted to take that walk, that Jon had insisted he was fine, that it wasn’t his problem if Jon chose to spend his convalescence in increasingly ambitious sexual positions.  Well.  To a point.

Rather than address the real issue at hand, Lovett opts for digging Jon’s pills out of his bag.  “Here,” he says shortly, popping the cap and shaking two out into the palm of his hand.  “You haven’t taken anything in who knows how long, no wonder you’re in pain.”

“I don’t need—"

“You _just said_ ,” Lovett snaps, growing tired of whatever Jon’s game seems to be.  “Just take the pills, lie down, and stop being an asshole about everything.”

Jon’s eyes flash and it looks like he wants to respond, but instead he holds his hand out silently for the pills, dry-swallowing them.  “There,” he says, stalking out of the kitchen without looking back at Lovett.

Lovett scrubs a hand over his face, frustrated.  He doesn’t know what to do, but he knows he can’t sit around this house, stewing in whatever toxic mess he’s gotten himself into.  “I’m going back to my place for a few hours,” he calls towards the living room.  “Call if you need anything.”

He waits for a response but hears nothing but a loaded silence.  Frustrated, he collects his laptop bag and Pundit’s leash and walks out the door, closing it behind him.

 

 

 

Lovett spends most of the morning playing video games, his fingers feeling rusty after a few days without his console.  Fucking Jon.  He takes a whole week out of his life to nurse him back to health and take care of his dog and—fuck, suck his cock like a nurse from a bad porn flick, and he gets this bullshit in return. _Ungrateful_ , he thinks sullenly as he swings a sword into a goblin-looking creature.   _Guess this is how it all falls apart_.  Jon and Lovett will start finding reasons to avoid each other, growing colder and colder until they’re barely talking outside of the office.  Their workplace will become toxic and unsustainable, the Fleetwood Mac of podcasting companies.  Eventually Lovett will quit like he does everything—the White House, Hollywood, every relationship worth a damn—and the company will fall apart and the resistance will fail and Trump will be president forever.

Or worse, much worse—Crooked Media will survive his departure, Jon and Tommy will carry on as they always have, and he’ll learn they never really needed him at all.

His avatar dies on screen and Lovett tosses his controller onto the couch, startling Pundit. _Was it worth it?_ he asks himself bitterly.   _At least you got a couple orgasms out of the deal_.

Pundit lifts her head off the couch, and a second later Lovett’s front door is opening to the sound of another dog barking and footsteps.  Jon appears in the doorway to the living room, Leo scurrying past him.

“Hey,” Lovett says, his traitorous heart picking up.  “What’s up?”

Jon shuffles over to the couch and lays down on it, burying his head in Lovett’s lap.  “I missed you,” he mumbles, rubbing his face on Lovett’s leg.  “I’m sorry I was an asshole.”

He’s hopped up again, Lovett realizes as Jon snuggles closer.  Well, that explains this.  Lovett sighs, threading his fingers through Jon’s hair.  “I’m sorry, too,” he says softly, and Jon lets out a heavy breath, his eyes drifting shut.

So maybe the company isn’t going to fall apart, Lovett decides as he watches Jon fall asleep.  Maybe everything will continue on as it has been, and everyone will be just fine—with the single, unimportant exception of Lovett’s broken heart.

 

 

 

Jon is more lucid when he wakes up, planting a kiss on Lovett before hauling himself off the couch.  “How about dinner?” he suggests.  “Do you want pizza?  Maybe Il Cielo?”

It’s an Italian restaurant—one of Jon’s preferred date night spots.  Lovett knows this, and wouldn’t have thought twice about going there last week with him.  They’ve been before, alone, with Tommy, with Jon’s parents.  But now he bristles at the thought of sharing a pizza and a bottle of wine with Jon at the same place he’s taken a string of girls.  Would he try any moves on him tonight, just for the lark of it?  Just to continue this little play-acting thing they have going on?  Would Lovett have to endure Jon ordering for him, playing footsie with him under the table, suggesting they split a tiramisu for dessert?

No fucking way.  “I’m kind of beat,” he says instead, his smile feeling insincere and tight.  “Why don’t we order a pizza instead?”

They order it to be delivered to Jon’s, since Lovett is pretty sure the delivery guy hates him after Pundit barked at him _one time_ , and they head back across the street.  

It’s comfortable, walking back into Jon’s house, kicking off their shoes and letting the dogs loose to roam the place.  He was always familiar with Jon’s house, with his possessions and his space, even before all this began.  He’s never hesitated to clean out Jon’s fridge, or reprogram his television, or take rolls of toilet paper home when he’s running low.  He’s strolled into Jon’s bedroom while he’s been in the shower and helped himself to the contents of his closet on a number of occasions.  These blurred lines between their lives—separating Jon’s from Lovett’s and Lovett’s from Jon’s—they’ve always been there, indistinct and malleable.  But it feels different now, somehow.  

Lovett stands in the entrance to the living room and looks around.  His sweater is draped over the armchair, tossed on top of one of Jon’s workout shirts.  His good running shoes are in the corner by the back door, left there when he returned from his last run.  His laptop is plugged in next to Jon’s iPad, his dog-eared Tana French novel sticking out of the couch cushions, and Leo has one of Pundit’s toys in his mouth, gnawing happily at it.

When this thing they’re doing finally ends, Lovett’s going to be finding traces of Jon in his life forever, like sand in the bottom of your backpack two years after you last set foot on a beach.  Lovett’s never one to run from a problem, but he always knows where the exit doors _are_ , in case he needs to use them.  And he has—he left Josh in D.C. and never looked back, he got the fuck out of his hometown as soon as he could, flipping off his high school in the rearview mirror.  Society’s recent acceptance of ghosting as an acceptable way to end relationships has been a boon for his sex and dating life.  

But Jon is _everywhere—_ he’s been growing into the cracks of Lovett’s life for ten years, weaving into the foundation of his life like ivy.  He’s inextricable.  

Lovett can’t do this.

“Want to watch a movie?” Jon asks, flopping back onto the couch.

Lovett _can’t do this_.

“Lovett?”

He looks up.  Jon is peering over the back of his couch, a curious look on his face.  Lovett rocks back on his heels, knowing that he can’t just run out the door but wanting to, with every fiber of his being.

“Hey, you okay?”  Jon rises from the couch, taking a step around it.  Lovett springs backwards, widening the distance between them.  “Whoa,” Jon says, raising both his hands.  “What’s going on?”

“I can’t—" Lovett waves his hand between them.  “We can’t do this, we’ve got to stop.  I shouldn’t have let it get this far in the first place, that was my fault—"

“What was your fault?” Jon asks, a shadow passing over his face.  “I seem to remember being the first one to—"

“I mean, this was a terrible idea from the start, right?” Lovett interrupts, scrubbing both hands over his face.  “You’re everywhere, I can’t just cut you out.  It’d be like carving out a malignant tumor.  I’d be left with, like, half a liver and a dissected stomach.”

“Wow, okay,” Jon says, looking offended.  “A tumor?”

“You know what I mean,” Lovett waves his hand.  He’s full of shit, even _he_ doesn’t know what he means.  “I just think—like, when this ends—and we have the company, and Tommy, and you _live across the street from me_ , I’m going to need to get a whole new set of restaurants and shops—"

“When this ends?”

“—joint custody of Tommy, probably, although I know you think you have a better claim on him because of how long you’ve—"

“Lovett!” Jon cries loudly, startling Lovett out of his rambling.  The room falls silent, and Jon takes a long, frustrated breath.  He plants his hands on his hips and stares at his feet for a long minute, a move Lovett recognizes from countless late-night writing sessions at the White House.  He’s trying to find the right words, the perfect turn of phrase, the single sentence that will save the world.  Lovett loved to watch Jon in those moments, silent and still as the chaos spun around him, waiting for him to lift his head and look across the room at him with bright eyes, ready to spin gold from straw.

Lovett has no idea what Jon could possibly say that is going to make this mess better, but a little flicker of involuntary, instinctive trust flares up in his gut, some unfounded faith that Jon can fix this.  

“I’m sorry,” Jon says finally, not looking at Lovett.  He sighs, his shoulders slumping.  “I shouldn’t have done what I did, I knew it was wrong, but—"

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

“Well, yeah,” Jon shrugs, glancing up at Lovett and then away.  “Look, I—I shouldn’t have taken advantage like I did, I knew you wouldn’t let me under normal circumstances…” Jon’s face twists, finally looking up and locking eyes with Lovett.  “I don’t want to ruin anything between us, that’s the last thing I want.”

“Me too,” Lovett says shakily, then, “what do you mean, you took advantage?”

Jon flushes, embarrassed, hunching forward and crossing his arms.  “You let me—when I was high, you let me, like, touch you.  You normally don’t even like hugging, but you were letting me hold you—"

“I think you’re getting the whole drugged part backwards here,” Lovett mumbles.

“I didn’t mean to escalate it, but it just—I mean, I did it, it didn’t just happen,” Jon says nonsensically, starting to pick up steam.  “And you seemed to like it, so I thought that maybe we could just, you know, keep going after—"

“I did like it,” Lovett cuts in, guilt curling in his stomach.  He liked it, even though he knew it was wrong, even though Jon was—

“I tried to stop taking them,” Jon says.  “And you didn’t seem to mind, so I thought—"

“I didn’t know,” Lovett says.  “I thought you might have still—"

“Oh.” Jon slumps, dejected.  “So that’s why you let me?”

“Wait.”  Lovett shakes his head, trying to shake everything loose.  “Why I let you?”

“Touch you.  When I was on the pills.  I should’ve known you were doing it to be nice—"

Lovett blinks, realization dawning on him slowly.  “You thought I was fucking you to be nice because I thought you were high?”

“Well, not _fucking_ , yet,” Jon shrugs, as if that’s the part of that sentence that needs an immediate correction.

“You’re—I—you were the one who was stoned!” Lovett splutters.  “That’s the only reason why you were touching me in the first place!”

“No it’s not!” Jon says, his brow furrowing.  “I mean, I was only on the pills for that first day and a half—"

“And then the weed—"

“—we both smoked that—"

“Not to mention the whole,” Lovett waves his hands grandly, “gratitude bit.”

Jon narrows his eyes.  “Gratitude?”

“For, you know, being such a good friend!  Being your caretaker!”

Jon stares at Lovett for a minute, and then bursts out laughing.  He throws his head back, his entire body shaking with it.

“Okay?” Lovett says, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.  “Not really trying to be funny at this moment…”

“You thought—I was sleeping with you—because I was grateful?” Jon says through fits of laughter.  

“I mean—"

“Lovett,” Jon says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.  “You were, at best, a mediocre caretaker.”

Lovett’s jaw drops, offended.  “ _Hey!_ ”

“I mean, I _am_ grateful,” Jon grins, taking a step forward.  Something has shifted in the room and Lovett isn’t quite sure what.  “But fuck, Lovett, believe me when I tell you your cooking ability has nothing to do with why I want you.”

“I also shaved your face,” Lovett says, put out.

“Yeah, I remember.”  Jon’s eyes darken and he takes another step forward.  “Lovett, I’ve been wanting to do this for months.”

“What?”

“I mean, why do you think I was standing in the middle of the road, laughing like an idiot at your Marco Rubio joke?”

“You were standing in the middle of—"

“Yes, because you make me do stupid things—"

“—so it _was_ my fault—"

“—like get hit by cars and follow you across the country and start media companies.”  Jon has managed to close the distance between them without Lovett realizing it, reaching out to grasp him by the waist, hold him still, keep him from retreating.

Lovett inhales sharply, his heart thudding in his chest.  “One of those things is not like the other, you realize that.”

“Shut up, Lovett,” Jon says, and then kisses him.  Lovett pushes up on his toes, winding his arms around Jon’s neck as he kisses him back.  “You’re an idiot,” Jon smiles against Lovett’s lips, drawing him tight against his body.

“I’m actually one of the brightest minds of my generation,” Lovett retorts, planting another kiss on Jon’s mouth.  “Months?”

“Maybe longer?” Jon says, straightening up slightly.  He keeps his arms around Lovett, staring down into his eyes with a hungry expression.  “I never knew what to say—you didn’t seem interested.”

“You’re straight!” Lovett protests, but he snorts when Jon raises one eyebrow.  “I guess not, but still.  I don’t hit on straight friends.  Anymore.”

“You hit on me and Tommy all the time,” Jon points out.  

“Yeah, but that’s funny.”

“It drove me crazy.”

“Really?” Lovett asks, a small, pleased smile growing on his face to think about Jon fidgeting during their more ribald ad readings, wanting Lovett and unsure of where he stood.  _Serves him right_ , he thinks with satisfaction, remembering late nights at the White House.  Working under the low light of a few lamps, Jon’s shirt-sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned, a heavy wooden table between them just begging to be swept clean of papers, calling for someone to be fucked on top of it.

“Everything about you drives me crazy,” Jon says.  His arms are tight around Lovett, holding him close, but for once Lovett doesn’t feel trapped.  He exhales, dropping his head forward onto Jon’s chest, sinking into him a little.  

“Sure you’re not still high?” he mumbles, rubbing his face on the soft fabric of Jon’s t-shirt.  “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and realize that all of this was said in a Vicodin-tinged haze.”

“I’m definitely not still high,” Jon says, kissing the crown of Lovett’s head.  

“You’re crazy about me?”  Lovett asks, tipping his head back and looking up at Jon.

Jon smirks, dropping a kiss onto Lovett’s upturned lips.  Lovett parts his lips under Jon’s, moaning as he deepens the kiss.  Jon’s good hand slides lower, squeezing Lovett’s ass through his sweatpants.  He rolls his hips against Lovett’s, his breath coming faster when Lovett slips his hands up under his shirt, spreading his hands over his warm, smooth skin.

"Okay," Lovett says, breaking the kiss with a gasp.  "Okay, you've made your point."

Jon shakes his head, immediately trying to reclaim Lovett's lips.  "Not yet," he says.

They stop talking after that, stumbling back to Jon’s bedroom, shedding clothes along the way.  Lovett lands on the bed, naked.  It’s still unmade from that morning, when he’d woken up with Jon’s tongue inside him, his ass spread apart and open under his mouth.  His dick twitches at the memory of it, heavy against his thigh, and he catches Jon looking.  Lovett smiles, reaching down to grip his cock in one hand, give it a couple firm tugs.  Jon inhales, dropping his briefs to the ground and crawling over Lovett on the bed.

Jon sprawls over him, skin against skin.  Lovett feels lightheaded, drunk on the feeling of being able to touch Jon everywhere, his mouth sliding over his own, his cock growing hard and insistent against his stomach.  Jon plants his hands and rolls his hips against Lovett’s, their cocks sliding together.  Lovett groans, spreading his legs wide and pushing up.  They kiss like that for a long while, growing hotter and sweatier and more frantic by the moment, until Jon suddenly breaks away with a gasp.

“Need to fuck you,” he mumbles, kissing Lovett again, one hand fumbling between them and finding the split of his ass.  “I need—" his finger catches on Lovett’s hole, rubbing around it.  “Can I?”

“Can you—can you fuck me?” Lovett gasps, trying to push down on Jon’s finger.  “Sure, you can fuck me.  You can also give me a million dollars, and fly me to Barcelona, and listen to me talk for hours unstop—" but that last one, at least, doesn’t seem to be in the plan for the day, because Jon kisses Lovett hotly, eating up his words.

Jon slides his hand over both their cocks, collecting the pre-come from their tips and spreading it over his fingers.  Lovett feels feverish watching him, knowing it won’t be enough, knowing he’s going to feel every inch of stretch as Jon pushes those fingers into him.  There’s gotta be lube somewhere in this house, maybe even two feet away in Jon’s nightstand, but Jon is already pushing his fingers into Lovett, both of them at once.  Lovett gasps at the intrusion, clenching up around the tips of Jon’s fingers.  “Shh,” Jon murmurs, kissing Lovett.  “Just—just relax, can you do that, sweetheart?”

The pet name helps, turning Lovett’s legs liquid and sending heat up his spine.  Lovett exhales and opens up around Jon’s fingers, his ass eating them up quickly.  “Good,” Jon says in an awed voice, watching his fingers fucking into Lovett.  “God, you have no idea how good you look.”

“Shut up,” Lovett says, moving to cover his face with his arms, but Jon grabs them and pulls them back down.  Lovett hates and craves praise and attention in equal measure—loving the anonymous cheer of an audience, but squirming uncomfortably during birthday toasts.  Jon pins his hands to his chest as he continues to work him open, a string of filthy praise pouring from his mouth.   _So perfect, opening up for me so well, gonna give you what you need, you’re gonna take it so beautifully_.  Lovett cock is leaking onto his stomach; he’s humiliatingly close to coming just from this—two fingers in his ass and Jon’s dirty, brilliant words.

Jon palms through the drips of come on Lovett’s stomach—Lovett flushes bright red, his breath coming rapidly—and feeds a third finger into his ass.  He feels the burn of the stretch, but his erection doesn’t flag; if anything, he grows harder, his cock twitching with every drag of Jon’s fingers inside him.  “Jon,” he whines, his mouth feeling slack and clumsy.  “Come _on._ ”

“What is it, baby?” Jon asks, still pushing into Lovett.  “What do you need?”

“Just—" he lets out a frustrated moan when Jon pulls his fingers out, rubbing his own cock with his slick hand.  Lovett watches Jon’s cock disappearing into his fist, his mouth watering at the sight.  “Fuck, I need you to fuck me,” he breathes, the shame a distant ringing bell under the cacophony of his need.  “Jon, please, I need you to—"

“Okay,” Jon nods, looking as frantic as Lovett feels.  “I just—" he stops, a little uncertain suddenly, “I need your help, I don’t think I do it like this.”  He waves his hand at his side, and Lovett understands immediately.

“That’s okay,” Lovett says, pushing up on his elbows and sitting up.  He gently shoves Jon back onto the pillows, clambering up to straddle his hips.  “Is this better?”

Jon nods, eyes wide and dark, his chest rising rapidly.  He grasps Lovett’s hips in his large hands, his long fingers spreading over his ass.  “Perfect, you’re perfect.”  He takes Lovett in hand suddenly, gripping him tightly as he jerks him off.  Lovett jumps, knees tightening around Jon’s hips as he thrusts forward into Jon’s fist.  “Wanna see you come,” Jon says breathlessly, thumbing the head of Lovett’s cock.  “I want you to come before I fuck you.”

“That’s—okay,” Lovett gasps, mindless.  He’s been worked up since breakfast—this won’t take long at all.  He plants his hands on Jon’s chest and fucks into his fist, his hips snapping forward.  “Want me to come all over you?”

“Yes,” Jon nods, bright-eyed.  He licks his lips, taking his hand away from Lovett’s cock to lick the palm before replacing it.  “You’re gonna do it for me because I asked you to, right?”

“Right,” Lovett says, and then he jerks in Jon’s grip and comes, spilling over Jon’s fingers, long spurts onto his stomach.  Jon beams at him, continuing to stroke Lovett’s oversensitive cock through it, until it almost becomes unbearable.  “Jon,” Lovett hisses, twitching away, relieved and only slightly bereft when Jon finally pulls his hand off.

Jon grips his own cock with slick fingers, stroking a few times to get himself to full hardness, and then with no warning he starts to feed his cock into Lovett’s ass.  Lovett drops his head forward, trying to relax into it, even with his heart racing like a jackhammer.  Jon’s cock is slightly above average, but he feels like a battering ram at this moment, huge and hard with barely enough lube.  The stretch is incredible—each inch feels like hours, or seconds, time becoming blurry as Lovett continues to sink down onto Jon’s cock.

Jon stops every once in awhile, collecting more come from the mess Lovett left on his stomach to slick up his cock.  He’s pouring sweat—either from the effort of holding himself back, or the ache in his ribs, or both, but either way he’s a vision—flushed and hot to the touch, mouth bitten red, his chest heaving under Lovett’s palms.  He looks debauched.  Lovett can’t imagine anything better than seeing Jon unraveled like this, just for him.  But then Jon looks away from where his eyes have been fixed on his cock sliding into Lovett’s ass, looking up and catching Lovett’s gaze, and this—the smile that spreads over Jon’s face, the look in his eyes as he stares up at him, this is the most amazing thing Lovett’s ever seen.

Lovett exhales and sinks down, all at once, taking Jon’s cock to the hilt.  They both groan at the sensation, Jon’s eyes closing as he tips his head back.  He rolls his hips up, an experimental thrust, and Lovett gasps as his cock hits an even deeper spot inside him.  Jon opens his eyes.

“Is it—are you—" Jon asks, sliding his hands up and thumbing at Lovett’s nipples.  Lovett gasps.  They’re still sore from the day before, apparently.  Jon smiles and does it again.

“You’re awful,” Lovett groans, rolling his hips down onto Jon.

“You like it.”  It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

Lovett rolls his eyes, but they widen when Jon scrapes his thumbnail over his nipple.  “God! Okay, yes, yes I—fuck, I like it,” he says, jolting when Jon thrusts gently up into him.

“Good,” Jon says, and then he plants his feet and starts fucking up into Lovett, slowly at first, then faster as he gets going.  Lovett, who thought he would have to do most of the work, winds up bending forward into Jon’s chest and hanging on for dear life.  His thighs ache from being spread so wide, and his raw nipples are chafing against Jon’s chest, but all he can focus on is the slide of Jon’s cock inside of him, so big and rough that Lovett wonders if he might just die from it.

“Can’t wait till I’m healed,” Jon says, his breath coming rapidly.  “Till I can do this for real, make you feel it, make it good for you—"

“It’s good,” Lovett groans, rubbing his face against Jon’s chest.  “It’s good, it’s _so good_ , fuck, Favs, you feel—"

Jon moans, driving up into Lovett rabbit-fast and then stopping suddenly, buried deep inside him.  Lovett can feel Jon’s come dripping out of him and he feels an absurd burst of pride, of ownership.   _That was my orgasm,_ he thinks fuzzily, dropping forward to sprawl against Jon, half-on top of him.   _I did that, I gave him that.  White House speechwriter, media mogul, provider of orgasms to one Jon Favreau._

Lovett feels Jon’s fingers spreading his ass apart, fingering through the mess dripping out of his hole.  “There’s so much of it,” Jon says, pleasure-drunk.  “You’re so full.”

Lovett buries his face in Jon’s shoulder as he continues to play with his ass, pushing the come back into his hole.  “Oh my god,” he mutters, but he spreads his leg wider over Jon’s legs, giving him better access.  “You’re a freak.”

“Guess I am,” Jon says thoughtfully, palming Lovett’s ass.  “Wanna ask for a refund?”

Lovett lifts his head to look at Jon.  He’s mussed up, hair sticking everywhere, skin red and blotchy and sweaty.  

“No,” Lovett grins, and the slow smile that dawns on Jon’s face is all the assurance he needs that this is the right choice.  “No, I think I’ll keep you.”

“Good,” Jon says, and kisses him.


End file.
